


John MacNab Didn't Have a Wand

by StacPolly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Richard Hannay Series - John Buchan
Genre: Crossover, F/M, HP: EWE, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:06:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 42,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2158506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StacPolly/pseuds/StacPolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Silly Season and Kingsley's tired of life, Hermione's living vicariously, Harry's had enough and Malfoy turns out to have a sense of humour. Ron's just in it for the laugh.</p><p>When the Minister for Magic and Head Auror start to suffer from post-war ennui Hermione decides to liven them up with a re-enactment of John MacNab, infamous poacher from Highland estates. Lucius Malfoy's albino peacocks had better watch out...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kingsley needs to spice up his life

**Author's Note:**

> John MacNab, published in 1925, is a novel by Scottish author John Buchan, of 'Thirty Nine Steps' fame and tells of 3 successful men - politicians, bankers and lawyers - who have survived the Great War but find civilian life a little bland. Deciding they need some danger and risk back in their lives they issue a challenge to three Highland Estates, warning them that 'John MacNab' will poach from their estate on a certain night, and challenging the landlords to prevent them.
> 
> Silly Season is the British word for the slow-news season which takes place during Parliamentary Recess in the summer months. The press are usually desperate for news, any news.
> 
> Harry Potter and co are the work of J K Rowling, whilst the main plot has been borrowed from John Buchan's John MacNab.

Kingsley throws himself into a chair, “Thank Merlin it’s Recess. If I have to sit through one more meeting with the European Wizarding Minister and Percy bloody Weasley,” he nods to Ron, “No offence Weasley.”

Ron grins, “None taken, he’s always been a knobhead, especially now he thinks he’s some sort of Lord of the Manor.”

Kingsley closes his eyes and Harry can see that he is genuinely tired and out of sorts. “I never wanted to be Minister, I only ever wanted to run round with a wand blasting doors off things.”

Hermione shifts along the bench to let Luna in. “Do you miss the war, Kingsley?” she asks gently.

Kingsley nods, “Best time of my life, in a way. I’m not cut out for all this regulatory reform crap and meetings in the fringes. What the hell is a fringe anyway?”

“A hair style, but I’ve always preferred braiding the front myself” says Luna, sedately. Kingsley glares at her half-heartedly but it’s never worth getting into an argument with Luna.

 

There’s a pause as they all sip their drinks and then Kingsley looks round warily. “I actually went to see Poppy about it the other day,” he confides.

“It?” asks Harry.

“The, I don’t know, deadness - I’ve got no interest in work, no interest in this holiday I’m supposed to be going on next week with Topaz, and I can’t even get up any excitement about these chips,” he says forlornly, regarding a chip as though it has personally wronged him.

Ron passes the ketchup. “Try this.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, “What did Madam Pomfrey have to say?”

Kingsley leans forward, with the first real sign of animation Harry’s seen in him for weeks. “Actually she suggested I go and fly my broomstick past the Houses of Parliament, at noon, or smuggle a wild Hungarian Horntail.”

Harry laughs, “I’d have to arrest you.” He grimaces, “Actually I’d have to get someone else to arrest you, but I’d be the one dealing with the paperwork - so don’t you dare.”

“Only if you caught me,” says Kingsley, grinning now. “Poppy thinks I need some danger back in my life.”

“Well why don’t you?” asks Hermione. Ron looks like her like she’s off her head, and Harry thinks he may be right.

“Statute of Secrecy ring any bells?” he asks, feeling _someone_ needs to uphold law and order here if Hermione won’t.

“Seriously,” she says, pulling out her mobile which, as they’re catching up in the privacy of Muggle London, will be working for once. “Have you lot ever heard of John MacNab?” She shakes her head, “Of course you haven’t.” She stares thoughtfully at the screen and Harry and Ron exchange shrugs.

 

Luna’s telling them that she’ll be going home again this summer, helping her dad with _The Quibbler_ , when Hermione rejoins the conversation.

“It’s not the the first time I’ve heard that complaint recently,” she tells Kingsley. “Harry’s been saying he was thinking of quitting the Aurors and running for Parliament, because it was, quote, ‘too boring’ now he can’t chase after dark wizards.”

Ron snorts. “Come on Mione, what’s your idea? I can tell you’ve got one.”

“Well," she starts, “In this Muggle story, there are three important men - politicians and so on - who have lost their taste for life since the First World War,” she adds, “That’s the Muggle war. Anyway, they decide to challenge the owners of three Highland estates, writing in the pseudonym of 'John MacNab’, to say they will steal a stag or salmon on their grounds on a certain date, and challenge the landowners to stop them. They have to take it very seriously because of course they stand to lose their reputations and be exposed in the press. I thought there were parallels."

Harry is laughing, it does seem out-of-character for Hermione to be suggesting law-breaking, if she is seriously suggesting what he thinks she is.  
Kingsley leans forward, “So, who were you thinking of?"

“Percy Weasley does remind me of one of the land-owners," she admits.

“How about Augusta Longbottom’s prize hens?" asks Luna laughing.

“And one of Lucius Malfoy’s albino peacocks?” suggests Ron. “They’ve still got them, I saw them on one of the Auror raids when we had to visit _all_ of his properties.”

“Find anything?” asks Luna.

“No,” answers Harry, still disgruntled. “Not a bloody thing. He’s either a reformed character, which I sincerely doubt, or he’s hidden them on another property, one we don’t know about.”

“Yet,” adds Ron, darkly.

The glass-collecting girl is fast approaching, and Hermione shushes them, “Let’s meet up at our flat on Friday; it’s too public here.”

“Luna, why don’t you come and spend a few days with us in the cottage this summer?" she continues more loudly. “Helping your dad’s all very well but I think it would do you good to get out and about a bit.”  
Harry’s eyes are burning; he can’t imagine what Luna has lost, because he has never even had what she lost. He reaches over and presses her hand.

“I know,” she admits, “It’s time.”

  
\-----------------------------------

Rose, who has an unpleasant trick of repeating everything she hears at the most inopportune moment, has been sent to The Burrow with her cousins, but Hugo remains at the flat and is perched on Luna’s lap, playing with her Glimpy scale necklace.

“I’m in,” says Kingsley.

His wife grimaces down at him, “I’m prepared to face press hostility and social exclusion if it means you’ll cheer up.”

“Press hostility’s nothing new,” Kingsley replies.

“Harry?”

He nods. He’s not entirely sure this is the best idea they’ve ever had, but the paperwork’s killing him slowly.

“Ron?”

“Oh yeah, count me in.”

“Where should we have our base?" asks Harry, happy to see his holiday plans take a significant turn for the better.

Ron coughs, “It’s only fair that we host you at the cottage, given that it’s my wife’s insane idea. It’s pretty remote, and that way we can all be together without raising suspicions. We’ll send the children to The Burrow and say we’re going on a romantic break. Mum’ll be delighted - thinks she’s going to get more grandchildren.”

“That will not be happening," says Hermione. “Lucius Malfoy’s estate in Oban is only a few miles away, and Audrey’s family place is at Mallaig,” she adds, ”You’ll have to apparate to the Longbottom’s, but it’s not too far.”

“Is this really a good idea?” Harry can’t help but ask, having learnt some degree of caution over the years. “Hermione’s slated for Attorney General in the next few years, and you’re the chief candidate for succeeding me when I run for Wizarding Parliament."

Ron nods shortly, “I hope to Merlin we don’t get caught.”

“Yes, I should make you aware of the hazards noted in my risk assessment,” continues Hermione, referring to a sheet of parchment. “Besides the obvious physical risks, and payment of money, there is, as Ron notes, a significant degree of reputational risk should you be discovered, especially for you Kingsley.”

“If I don’t do _something_ , one day you’ll find me in my office sticking quills in my ears and eating memos,” says Kingsley.

 

Once Hugo is in bed they gather around the dining room table screwing up parchment after parchment as they draft The Challenge, as it’s become known. Finally they agree on a short but strongly worded missive, lifted almost entirely from the Muggle book.

_“Sir, I have the honour to inform you that I propose to kidnap a gnome/hen/albino peacock --(or whatever the animal may be)--on your ground between midnight on---and midnight---. The animal, of course, remains your property and will be duly delivered to you. It is a condition that it must be removed wholly outside your bounds. In the event of the undersigned failing to achieve his purpose he will pay as forfeit three hundred galleons, and if successful two hundred galleons to any charity you may appoint. I have the honour to be, your obedient humble servant."_

“That’s legal enough to satisfy Percy, pompous enough to bait Lucius Malfoy, and respectful enough to get Augusta Longbottom on side,” remarks Hermione.

“Remember to pay for the post owls in cash Harry, and make it a central office.” Ron reminds him.

“Any Other Business?” asks Hermione when they’ve discussed The Quibbler’s announcement that the Minister and his wife will soon be departing for a spa in Aix en Provence.  
They all shake their heads. “Rendezvous at 18:00, Ben Lochair Lodge. I expect you all to travel separately, and by Muggle transport, we cannot have some bright spark at the Floo and Apparitions Office wondering what’s going on in Lochaber.

“I like it when you say Rendezvous,” says Ron.

Time to leave, thinks Harry, heading back to his lonely flat on the South Bank.

\--------------------------------------------

  
Three days later, notice handed in at the Auror Office and parliamentary candidacy announced, Harry heads north on the Deerstalker from Euston. By boarding early and staying in his cabin all night he has reckoned on not being spotted. He knows half the pure blood MWPs will be heading up to their Highland estates, spending the night in the bar for last minute politicking, and he has no mind to bump into them. Thankfully they should be too pissed to notice anything by morning.

At about five, awoken by the change in timbre of the train as the small engine starts to chug up the inclines north of Loch Lomond, he can wait no longer. Trusting to the total inebriation of his soon-to-be colleagues to keep him safe, he pushes his door, and seeing the corridor free, heads down to the carriage’s only loo. Necessary offices performed he cracks open the door and it is only thanks to his Auror reflexes that he manages to duck back in time.

The train rattles and clunks its way over the points as he considers breathlessly what to do next. You can not follow someone for seven years without recognising their back, whatever they may be wearing, and really, he had not expected to see Draco Malfoy in a Barbour jacket and tweeds. Perhaps Malfoy will give up and try the loo in the next - ah. Well, Malfoy’s never been known for his patience -

“Hurry up! Are you planning on taking a bath in there?” Malfoy sounds slightly worse for wear but nowhere near drunk enough that he’s going to forget seeing Harry two hours north of Glasgow when he’s supposed to be in Romania with Charlie Weasley.

The knocking continues and Harry suspects the next thing will be an ‘ _Alohomora_ ’, Muggle train or not. Disapparition from a moving object is considered a Very Bad Idea, but within a train? Harry thinks it might just be possible, although he’s not going to be telling Hermione about it. He concentrates and a sickening tug later finds himself in a cabin, unfortunately not _his_ cabin. He checks the number above the door - 13 - well he’s in 14. Not too bad. His now heightened senses register footsteps towards him and he realises with growing panic that the bed is both slept-in and empty. As most people are still either in the bar or sleeping it off, he suspects he knows what’s coming.

As the door handle rattles he slips through the connecting door, and hoping he’s right he shuts it softly behind him just as Malfoy enters. Thankfully it is his cabin, but how, well, weird to have passed the night less than a metre from a sleeping Malfoy.

 

As they slow for the corner Harry grits his teeth. There’s now no way he can hope to make the transfer in Fort William unobserved. Only one thing for it -

He lands gasping in the heather, which fortunately breaks his fall. He stays low until the train rounds the bend and then stands, dusting off his clothes. He makes it 07.55 am and he’s a few miles north of Crianlarich. He’s got a lot of ground to cover.


	2. News comes with the post

Kingsley is the last to arrive, and rather the worse for his day crossing Rannoch Moor on foot and a series of lifts posing as a Muggle hitchhiker. He gratefully takes a glass of whisky and downs it in one.

“Topaz got away ok this morning, should be something in The Prophet tonight,” he predicts. “She made enough song and dance about it at the French Ambassador’s party last night - half London must know by now.” He looks around, “Plinky and Plunket arrive here alright?”

Hermione nods shortly and Harry knows she’s none-too-pleased to be hosting working house-elves, “Will they be discreet?”

“They’ve been with my family for years, and their forebear’s forebears and all that.” He sends a placatory smile towards Hermione, “I’m fairly sure they’d defend me with their lives.”

The re-directed challenge responses have arrived with the House Elves, and after dinner Hermione enchants each envelope and waves them into a silver goblet.

“It’s binding,” she announces, when a crackle of blue flame appears to leap from the cup. “Rather like the Goblet of Fire.”

Harry rather hopes this challenge turns out better.

“Eldest first,” says Kingsley, gingerly pulling out a thin white envelope. He groans, “Augusta Longbottom’s prize hen. I think I’d rather have Lucius Malfoy.”

“I wouldn’t, says Harry, thinking of the last time he was in the company of Malfoy senior. “Ladies next.”

Ron reaches in, pulls out a very official looking envelope and chuckles, “I know who this is. It’s Percy and a Sniggering Highland Dwarf."

Harry frowns, “Do those even exist? I’ve never heard of them before this.”

Luna smiles serenely, “Oh yes, _Pumilus mons cachinno_ , they’re a menace. Really Percy will probably be pleased when you catch one.”

“Hopefully Percy will never know,” says Ron looking at Luna. “You do realise that he’ll throw the whole law book at me?”

Hermione offers the goblet to Harry, but he knows what’s coming.

“The Malfoys and an albino peacock.”

“Rather you than me,” says Ron, helpfully.

They gather around to read the replies. First it’s Harry’s, a thick cream envelope closed with a seal.

_“Sir,_   
_As a long-standing defender of the statutes and regulations of this country I can only express my horror at this lawless challenge to my property. However, my son has persuaded me that I should consider this gross insult as a sporting challenge, and I accept, but I defy you to poach a peacock from my grounds and you may be assured that I will use every means at my disposal to prevent you._   
_Lucius Malfoy.”_

Harry gulps. “That’s more than a bit scary, coming from Lucius Malfoy.”

“You hardly expected less did you?” asks Ron, who seems to be finding this far too amusing.

“Sporting of the son,” remarks Kingsley, “Thought you weren’t that keen on him.”

The next letter is on a thin, legal sized parchment.

_“Sir,_   
_Our client, Mr Percival Weasley, Under Secretary of State for Magical Law and Regulation, has requested us to reply to your letter of July 20th. We are instructed to say that our client is at a loss to interpret your challenge, and unable to decide if it is mere impertinence or a serious criminal threat to life and property. If it is the latter, and you persist in your aim to commit the crimes of trespass and theft, he will have no choice but to refer the matter to the Aurors. We would also point out that under the Wizarding Law of Scotland, trespassers will be prosecuted and fined fifty galleons, whilst trespassers entering private land with the intent to poach will be subject to a one hundred galleon fine. Aggravated trespass, that is, with the assistance of magic, may result in a custodial sentence._   
_We are, sir, your obedient servants,_   
_MacNamara, Biggleswicke and Topsy.”_

“The legal aspects are sound,” remarks Kingsley.

“My best hope is a verdict of diminished responsibility,” Ron says, slamming back his whisky.

“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” says Hermione, taking the final envelope from Kingsley.

“Let’s hear what Augusta Longbottom’s got to say - if I can read it,” she says regarding the old-fashioned handwriting with horror.

 _“My dear boy,_  
 _The infernal cheek of your challenge takes my breath away. What is the world coming to that respectable, defenceless old ladies are attacked in their home. Well, I warn you that my grandson, Neville Longbottom, hero of the second war against Voldemort, and wielder of the Sword of Gryffindor, will be defending my property. You enter at your own risk._ ”

“Defenceless my arse,” mutters Kingsley.

 

The next day is spent out of sight of callers and delivery men, studying the Magical Ordnance Survey maps that Hermione has thoughtfully provided. Fortunately all three competitors are used to reading maps professionally and soon every table in the house has a three dimensional Magical Map ProjectionTM hovering above it.

“I think we can safely assume some pretty hardcore privacy wards,” says Harry, tracing the floating blue boundary of the Malfoy’s Highland estate.

“Any weak spots?” asks Hermione, coming over from Luna’s spot near the fire where she appears to be reading up on the habitat of the Greater Northern Flobberworm.

He hums, “With a glamour I can probably get quite close to the grounds, have a look at the physical layout.”

“Not a glamour,” says Hermione. “They’ll be expecting a wizard, you’d be better off disguising yourself as Muggle tourist.”

 

Late that evening, when the day’s newspapers eventually arrive by owl, they are all sitting in the library having a post-prandial drink.

“Oh heavens!” exclaims Hermione, hand across her mouth. She glances at Harry, “It’s the Malfoy’s Mungo Hospice Ceilidh on the 5th. There’s a big article in The Prophet - half of Wizarding society’s going to be there."

Harry swears, “And no doubt the entire Press Corps. Bloody Malfoys, can’t they rebuild their reputation on one of the 365 nights when I’m _not_ trying to poach one of their peacocks?”


	3. Chapter 3

Another early start finds Harry, bearded, with hair dyed light brown, thanks to Hermione - he suspects it’s best not to ask why she has hair dye in her washbag - and eyes hidden behind blue contacts, bumping over the track in the Ford Anglia. When Hermione, as the only person with a Muggle driving licence, has brought him as far as she can without the distinctive car being seen from the Malfoy’s grounds, he jumps down.

“Take these walking poles,” she says, offering two shiny Muggle sticks that Harry has seen American Muggles use to scale Oxford Street. “I’ve adapted them, if you know what I mean."

So clad in old Muggle combat trousers and an over sized Green Day t-shirt he sets off along the sheep track towards the sea and Oban.

 

On reflection they’ve agreed that the approach to the Malfoy estate would best be made in the persona of a confused Muggle hill-walker. Harry sincerely hopes that Lucius has got over his Muggle-baiting ways or he might find himself locked in a dungeon - and no Malfoy property is complete without one of those. Looking down at his over-sized Muggle camera and battered brown walking boots Harry thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of blending in.

After an hour’s walk Harry has an extremely good view of the Malfoy’s Highland house. It’s a lot smaller than Malfoy Manor, and security must be lax because before he realises what he’s doing he’s stepping across an ornate wooden bridge and into what must be the gardens.

Surprisingly, as he’s always thought of Draco as a lazy lay-a-bed until midday sort of git, it’s Malfoy Junior rather than Senior who he stumbles upon.

“Don’t you realise that this is private property?” a well-known voice demands imperiously from the river bank.

Harry looks up and his prepared back story suddenly doesn’t come out quite so smoothly. “Sorry, I’m a, erm, naturist,” he explains, waving his camera.

He doesn’t expect the snort of amusement. “Really? You seem rather over-dressed for the occasion, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Harry looks down at his mud-encrusted boots and combats and shrugs. “It was pretty cold this morning.”

“I daresay it was. Have you come far?”

“Just a few miles,” Harry says, “I wanted to, er, catch the sunlight over your lake, with those ducks and things.”

“Loch,” corrects Malfoy. He leans forward and pokes the Nikon, “Is that a cam-e-la?”

Harry offers the camera to him hoping he doesn’t ask for a demonstration.

“I’ve seen one of these at school,” says Malfoy, pulling off the lens cap. The camera switches on automatically and Malfoy almost drops it as the screen lights up. He peers at the lens and as the shutter clicks he yelps, “I think it bit me.”

Harry represses a snort, torn between laughter and trying not to break his cover, “It’s just the shutter, it was taking a photograph.”

“Ah, well. I knew that,” replies Malfoy handing the camera back.

"Oh!" he smiles and points. “Green Day! I know them. I’ve seen them.”

It’s Harry’s turn to look surprised, who would have guessed, Draco Malfoy, Muggle-punk-lover.

“Yeah, they’re pretty cool,” he says. They were one of the first bands he went to see when he got full access to his vaults after the war.

Malfoy nods, “They were brilliant. I saw them in London. I’ve been trying to teach myself the chords ever since.”

Harry’s mind boggles at the image of Draco Malfoy fiddling around with a Muggle guitar. “I’d, well best be off,” he starts, jerking over his shoulder towards the hill and hoping to leave before it gets any weirder.

“Not so fast,” drawls Malfoy, and for a frozen moment Harry thinks his cover is blown. He looks up from where he is fastening the camera into its case.

Malfoy smiles, and it’s kind of a nice smile - unless you know Malfoy, Harry reminds himself. “Why don’t you come and have a cup of coffee in the summer house. I rarely get any company of my age up here.”

Harry casts a longing glance at the col from whence he descended, but decides to go along with it. You never know, he might find out something useful, and he can’t deny he’s not intrigued by this never-before-seen side to Draco Malfoy.

As they walk Malfoy is chatting animatedly about guitars and concerts, although Harry notices that he pronounces a lot of Muggle words cautiously, as though he’s trying something out in a foreign language. For an avowed Muggle hater he’s doing pretty well and Harry even starts to wonder if perhaps Malfoy has changed. It has after all been a good ten years.

When they arrive the table is already laid with coffee things, and a small white and silken Crup with a smile like it’s got the cream, which, as it turns out, it has.

“Spangles!” shouts Malfoy in exasperation. The little Crup jumps up and slobbers milky whiskers all over his trousers.

Harry bites his lip. “Your, erm, dog?”

“No, Cru...” Malfoy flashes a quizzical glance. “My mother’s, she dotes on it. I hate the bloody thing.”

Harry can’t resist - “What an unusual tail. What breed is it?” he can’t quite read the look Malfoy sends him as he passes over a cup of coffee.

“Black only I’m afraid, I seem to have mislaid the cream. I can’t imagine where,” he continues, picking up the Crup and stroking its silky back.

The coffee’s long cold and talking like this is surprisingly enjoyable. Malfoy, as it turns out, has a rather dry sense of humour. There's something restful about dogs and relaxed for the first time in months Harry reaches over to stroke Spangles under the chin. When there’s a sudden silence he looks up and realises Malfoy’s not looking at the Crup; instead he’s staring, intensely, at the tanned arm across his lap. Harry draws back and looks down.There’s nothing there, just a brown, scarred and muscular forearm.

Struck by a sudden idea, he decides to try it out. He leans back, arms behind his head, and he knows that his t-shirt is riding up his stomach.  
Malfoy’s voice falters for a second before he turns to fiddle with the pile of daisies on the table.

“What are you doing?” asks Harry, momentarily distracted from his plans.

Malfoy flushes and moves to cover them with his hand, “Nothing.”

Harry peers more closely, “Is that?” - no, it can’t possibly be - “A daisy chain?”

Malfoy shrugs, “It’s for Spangles,” he says defensively, “I was very bored.”

“I can see that,” says Harry, eyeing him in disbelief.

Once Malfoy has finished the chain and placed it carefully around the sleeping Crup’s neck, Harry asks, with sudden suspicion, “Where did you learn to do those?”

“My cousin, Teddy,” he replies smiling, and it’s a smile Harry certainly never saw at school.

“He’s visiting here at the moment,” says Malfoy, “With his grandmother - my aunt.”

Harry’s mind is racing, it’s certainly news that Andromeda and Teddy are in the Highlands, and if so John MacNab will need to be more careful. He can’t help asking, however, “Where are his parents then?”  
He really wonders how Malfoy will deal with this question, it will tell him more about who Malfoy is now, and to his surprise, he finds he wants to know more.

Malfoy looks fixedly at the distant peaks before he sets his shoulders and looks Harry in the eye, and there’s a world of feeling there, “Dead, unfortunately.”

Harry responds to what he’s seeing, and before he can stop himself he too admits, “Mine too. When I was little - a car accident,” he adds, fairly sure that Malfoy doesn’t know that part of his history with the Dursleys.

There’s an awkward silence, and then “I’m sorry,” says Malfoy. “That must be pretty tough. I’ve seen Teddy have some hard times.” Pain flashes across his face, “I don’t think I fully realised what it meant before I met Teddy.”

Harry shrugs, “I don’t think anyone can, unless they’ve been through it.”

“That’s no excuse for a lack of empathy,” says Malfoy, staring hard at Spangles. “There was a boy, at school,” he begins, “He was an orphan. I -, well, I wasn’t a very nice child. I used it against him, bullied him and teased him about having no parents.”

Harry says nothing - there is nothing he can say.

Malfoy continues, “I went through some pretty unpleasant experiences myself, but it wasn’t until I was cuddling Teddy when he was calling out for his mum after a nightmare, that I really understood what a complete bastard I used to be.”

Harry’s silent, until he realises that Malfoy is looking at him, waiting.

“What matters is you’ve changed now,” he says, uncomfortable with the irony of comforting Malfoy on this particular topic.

Malfoy looks startled, “I’m not sure he, the boy that is, would think that. I’ve wished I could apologise, but I don’t see him any more, I try to keep out of his way.”

“Maybe you should apologise,” suggests Harry. “People change, he might accept that.”

“Do they?” says Malfoy, “I wish I could be sure. I try, but -” he shrugs.

Harry is intrigued but Spangles suddenly cocks an ear, jumps from Malfoy’s lap and sets off across the lawn at a surprising pace.  
“Probably my mother, or a peacock,” says Malfoy, brushing off his trousers. “He’s obsessed with the bloody peacocks.” He looks at Harry, “I don’t know what was in the coffee, but that was a very deep conversation for this early in the morning, especially when I don’t even know your name. I do apologise.”

“Jamie,” says Harry, holding out his hand. “I didn’t mind at all.”

 

It’s only after he’s waved good bye, and to his horror and surprise, agreed to a meet up in the pub the following day, that he realises he’s entirely forgotten to locate the albino peacocks.


	4. Chapter 4

“So,” begins Hermione driving back from the col. “How did it go?”

“Not bad,” he says, hoping to put her off, but knowing that she rarely lets anything drop.

She gives him The Look, as he and Ron call it, and he capitulates, as he knew he would.

“I met Malfoy, Draco, that is. He thinks I’m a Muggle tourist looking for animals. We had coffee and cakes in the garden,” he marvels. It’s been quite a surreal morning."

“Did you find the peacocks or were you too distracted by the cake?”

“Er, no,” he admits. “But I have an idea,” he continues, and explains his plan to vamp Malfoy into inviting him to the Ball on the day of the raid.

Hermione looks concerned, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why not?” he demands.

“Well, you’ve always been - never mind,” she says.

 

“I thought you might need a back-up plan,” she remarks a few minutes later, pulling over into a passing point behind a cart and horse that Harry recognises as a Squib Provisioner. “I’ve been making friends.”

Harry follows her out of the car, a little resentful. His idea is a perfectly good one.

“Here’s someone I thought you’d like to meet,” she announces, and Harry realises she’s talking to the young boy driving the cart.

The kid, who must be all of thirteen, and is dressed in ragged over-sized clothes that make Harry’s stomach contract, looks at him with hero-worship in his eyes.

“Harry Potter!” the boy breathes, holding out a grubby hand. “Thank you sir, for everything you’ve done for us.”

Harry can feel his cheeks burn and he looks appealingly at Hermione.

“Roddy and I met earlier. He recognised the car from the cottage, and wondered what we were doing over here.” Her voice is significant, “I felt it best to explain what we’re planning.”

“I thought you was maybe on Auror business Mr Potter, here to arrest that Malfoy.”

“Draco?” asks Harry, surprised.

“Nah, Lucius Malfoy, the old one. The young one hasn’t done us any harm. Always let’s us have a cup of tea and a cake with the House Elves when I’m up at the big house.”

“Roddy’s a Squib Provisioner,” Hermione explains. “He acts as go-between between the big Wizarding estates and the Muggle fishermen and gamekeepers, bringing up the fresh produce for the Elves to prepare.”

“I see,” says Harry with dawning comprehension. “So, you’re able to get in and out of the grounds and nobody would think anything of it?”

“That’s right,” he nods. “I wouldn’t like to do anything to get young Mr Malfoy into trouble, but I wouldn’t mind getting me own back on Mr Lucius. From the war, you know, and all the things he says about Squibs in his political speeches.”

 

“I’ve always wanted to be an Auror,” Roddy remarks later, when they’ve discussed Hermione’s plans for the raid.

“You could try to become a Muggle policeman,” suggests Hermione.

The boy smiles wistfully, “Not much chance of that Miss. The Aurors wouldn’t take the likes of us, and the Muggles won’t accept us either. I’ve had no schooling since my parents realised I wasn’t going to be magical. We Squibs have to fend for ourselves.”

Hermione looks horrified, and Harry just knows he’s witnessing the start of a campaign for Squib rights.

“Do you mean you’re out here on your own?” she asks.

“My parents waited,” he says, “They even waited until they were sure I wouldn’t be getting me Hogwarts letter. Most wouldn’t have done that, especially when they haven’t got much money like my parents don’t. There’s no place for us in the magical world and no place in the Muggle either,” he shrugs philosophically.

 

“Bright lad; seems a shame to waste that potential,” says Hermione as they drive back to the Lodge in the rain.

“Let’s see what we can do for him, once all this is over,” says Harry. “Thanks,” he continues, “Your plan is probably a lot better than mine.”

“ _And_ no need to involve Draco,” says Hermione.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry checks his appearance in the bow window of the main fish and chip shop in Oban. Apparition has a tendency to return his hair to its habitual messy state, and he spent a good twenty minutes after lunch trying to slick it down. When he gets to the Salmon and Pitcher Malfoy’s already there, perched uneasily on one of the padded benches by the window, a half empty glass of wine in front of him. He’s either been there a long time or that wine is a hell of a lot better than Harry remembers.

“Hi there, can I get you another glass of wine?” says Harry, and Malfoy turns quickly towards him, and it may be relief Harry sees, but he’s not sure.

“Good afternoon,” Malfoy stands and formally holds out his hand. “I’d rather not thanks. I’ve spent the last half hour wondering how they got the cat to sit on the bottle.”

Harry grins, “Well, you know, pub wine is never a good idea. How about a pint of the 80 shilling?”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow and Harry just knows he’s never been in a Muggle pub before, or not one in Scotland anyway. “It’s a local beer, quite heavy.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy nods shortly.

Harry tosses the peanuts on the table. He figures the thirstier Malfoy is the more he’ll drink, and the more susceptible he’ll be to Harry, or rather Jamie’s, charms.  
“So, that’s an impressive place you’ve got up here,” he says, sipping at the froth.

 

When Malfoy nips to the loo Harry is left staring after him blankly when he realises that there’s a terrible, terrible flaw in his lovely plan. He bets Hermione saw it straight away, and has spent the last day laughing up her sleeve. Really it’s the kind of cunning plan that makes Private Baldrick look like a master of military strategy - where the fuck was his brain yesterday and how the fuckadoodledo is he going to get Malfoy to invite him, supposedly a Muggle, to a Wizarding event like the St Mungo’s Hospice Ceilidh? He’s going to have to sacrifice himself for the greater good again, only, this time, looking out at the harbour, he thinks it’s going to involve a freezing cold plunge into the Sound.

When Malfoy comes back Harry’s pulling on his coat and he doesn’t think he’s imagining that Malfoy looks a little disappointed when he asks, “Oh. Are you going home?”

Harry nods out of the window. “Hadn’t realised how long we’d been here. I’m starting to get hungry. How about some fish and chips?”

Malfoy looks like he doesn’t know whether to be pleased or horrified, but nods, and they head out into the early evening light.

They go straight for the chips - if Harry’s going to do this he’s going to warm himself up first - and at his insistence they bring their paper parcels to a bench on the harbour wall. Harry opens his and licks vinegar off his fingers before he realises that Malfoy’s looking at him in consternation.

“Don’t you posh boys ever eat chips from a newspaper?” he asks. “Go ahead, it tastes better like this.”

With a look of barely disguised apprehension Malfoy unfolds his packet and delicately picks up the first vinegar-sodden chip. He bites into it and, with Harry watching him, grins and swallows the whole thing.  
“I can’t believe I’ve never done this before,” he says, another chip following the first.

“You haven’t lived,” says Harry, nudging him, and Malfoy laughs.

When they’ve worked their way through generous helpings and licked their fingers clean, Malfoy, no doubt aided by the three pints and cat’s piss he put away earlier, is relaxed and almost giggly. Harry’s having fun, actual fun, and this is more than a bit weird. The sun is starting to go down and it’s another beautiful sunset across the Western Isles, so they agree to walk around the harbour wall and look for seals.

It’s time, although Harry more than half wishes it wasn’t, for more than one reason. He jumps up onto the harbour wall and swings his legs over, “Come on, you’re not afraid are you?”

Malfoy shakes his head, “I’m coming, but be careful. I’m not fond of heights.”

Once Malfoy’s sitting next to him, swinging his legs and throwing scraps of his roll to the fish, all Harry has to do is lean forward, point at an imaginary seal, and then he’s falling, falling, and really hoping that Malfoy brought his wand.

The command comes just as Harry hits the water, and yanks him up for a second - Malfoy’s reflexes could really do with some work. He’s gasping and freezing and whilst his downward fall was halted, the spell's doing nothing against the weight of his jeans and boots threatening to drag him down. There’s another splash, and he resurfaces, struggling and spluttering, but now there’s an arm round his neck. He fights it off, kicking and punching. Then - nothing.

 

“What the fuck was that?” asks Harry, moving gingerly to get up. The hard concrete of the dock is doing nothing for his increasingly middle-aged back.  
Malfoy’s standing over him, looking embarrassed and also very very wet.

“You fell in. I told you to be careful,” says Malfoy, a little peevishly.

“Thanks, I got that bit,” says Harry, flapping his sodden arms, but after a glance at Malfoy he folds them and tries not to make any sudden movements. Malfoy looks twitchy and it suddenly occurs to him that he’s got to play this carefully - he can’t use his wand, not if the plans’s going to work, and the last thing he needs is Malfoy chucking a panicked ‘ _Obliviate_ ’ at him.

“What happened?”

“It’s customary to thank people when they save you,” says Malfoy, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Is it? Thanks.” says Harry unable to resist, and Malfoy flushes, or it could just be the glow from his impromptu bath.

“I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s ok. I _know_.”

It’s almost as if Malfoy was waiting for it, “You know what?”

“You’re a Wizard, aren’t you?” asks Harry.

Malfoy nods, but his hand is hovering over his wand sleeve, “Who are you?”

Harry holds out his palms and tries to look as innocent and un-threatening as he can, “Just a Squib - didn’t realise you were a Wizard.

“A Squib,” says Malfoy, flatly.

Harry waits, whatever Roddy might have said, he can’t imagine Malfoy continuing a friendship - if that is what this is becoming - with a Squib.

“And you really don’t know who I am?”

Harry shakes his head, projecting an injured naivety. “Why? I live in the Muggle world - I told you my parents died when I was young. To all intents and purposes I was brought up a Muggle, but I've got some Wizarding cousins I see at Christmas and so on, so I know all about your Law of Secrecy and you really don’t need to do that obliviation thing.” He wiggles an imaginary wand before asking, “Are you famous then?”

Malfoy shrugs, “You could say that - or infamous perhaps. I told you I didn’t use to be very nice.”

Harry smiles, “You seem alright to me. Are you going to put that wand to good use?”

Malfoy starts. “I’m sorry?”

Harry waves his hands theatrically, “I’m a bit damp - if you’ve got a magic spell to dry clothes, now would be a good time to use it.”

 

Late that evening, as he’s drying his boots in front of the sitting room fire - apparently _Exaresco_ does terrible things to high quality leather - Hermione announces, “I had a very surprising visitor this afternoon.”

For a moment Harry wonders wildly if Malfoy’s got wind of his presence here and come to make that apology in person.

“Andromeda and Teddy,” she continues. “I didn’t know they were on holiday up here.”

“They’re staying with the Malfoys,” remembers Harry.

“Oh Merlin,” says Ron, “This place is turning into Picallilli Circus.”

“Picadilly," corrects Hermione. "You could have mentioned it,” she continues, eyeing Harry in a way he really doesn’t like.

Harry can feel himself flushing, and it’s not the heat of the fire, “I forgot.”

“However, _they_ weren’t my surprising visitor,”  she continues, voice devoid of tone, “Narcissa Malfoy was.”

Harry and Ron look at her quickly, “Are you alright?” asks Harry, as Ron puts his arm round her.

“I should have been here,” says Ron.

“It was surprisingly alright,” she takes a sip of her whisky. “Andromeda came in first and asked if it would be ok to bring her sister.”

“What did she have to say?” asks Harry, intrigued.

“Said she had wanted to invite me to the Ceilidh next week, but didn’t feel that she could.”

“Probably just trying to get more publicity, or butter up the next Attorney General - she’s never deigned to visit us before,” remarks Ron, poking at the logs with the fire-iron.

“I don’t think so,” muses Hermione, golden lights shining from her glass as she swirls it in the firelight, “She said she’d always wanted to apologise for what happened in the war, especially what happened to me at the Manor, but she hadn’t been sure if just seeing her would upset me and bring back the trauma. She was actually rather nice - I think she suffered a lot too back then.”

“She did,” says Harry, surprising himself, “I saw what was happening, when Voldemort was at the Manor and it was pretty grim for them, Draco and Narcissa especially. That, and their help there and at the Forest, was why I was witness in their defence at the trials.”

“So why now?” asks Ron.

Hermione shrugs, “Andromeda persuaded her. Apparently Luna’s going to the ceilidh, it seems Narcissa apologised to her years ago. I thought maybe we could go too.” She yawns, “I’m off to bed.”


	6. The Longbottom Raid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kingsley has a bad day. So does Draco.

The day of the raid on Augusta Longbottom’s hens dawns bright and clear, although that’s no guarantee of good weather up here, as Harry very well knows. Draco’s apparently busy today, which gives Harry a clear field to give Kingsley a hand.

Harry’s job is to get on to the Longbottom land early, ready to cause a distraction and draw Andromeda as far away from the hen coop as he can, for as long as he can, leaving Kingsley to go in for the kill, as it were - although Hermione has said very clearly that no animals are to be hurt in this game. Ron’s task is to be ready to help get the hen off the premises, and of course, it’s absolutely vital that none of them are caught.

Kingsley, who is most at risk, will again be well-disguised as a tramp, in the oldest, roughest clothes that Hermione has been able to extract from Molly’s rag bag. He’s liberally covered his face in dirt, rubbed heather through his beard, and as a finishing touch he has Ron’s old, first, wand which was long ago de-registered, and which produces little beyond futile sparks. If captured he’s relying on Augusta’s kind heart to let a poor wand-less tramp go. Harry, who has met Neville’s gran on many occasions, is not so sure.

Up on the hill at the furthest limit of the small estate, Harry casts a quick _Tempus_ \- it’s eight o’clock and Kingsley should by now be establishing his character with an attempt to beg for bread at the gate.

\---------------------------------------------

“Clear off!” comes a shrill voice. “No beggars here, not today.”

Kingsley moves closer to the gate, “Please Lady, I’ve had no food for two nights. Surely you have some stale bread?” he hopes he’s not over-doing it, possibly no self-respecting beggar would actually request stale bread.

Steps come closer and a wizened and very intimidating old Witch hobbles down to the gate and peers over.  
Kingsley clasps his hands in supplication and evidently something about him appeals to whatever Augusta Longbottom has for a heart, because her face softens.

“Come on up to the house, but then you’ll have to promise to clear off. I can’t have beggars wandering around my grounds today, of all days.”

Kingsley moves forward meekly, “Thank you Mrs, I won’t be a bother.”

“Speak up young man! You’d better not be,” she replies shortly, but her bark is worse than her bite, because she gives him soft fresh bread and a cup of warm coffee.

There’s a chime of the wards and Augusta squints down the drive, “Visitors, not today!” she exclaims. Then, “Oh, how lovely.”

Kingsley peers past her, “Oh Merlin.”

Thankfully she’s as deaf as a post. He thanks her and backs out of the kitchen door, just in time, as the well-known figure of Teddy Lupin scampers into the kitchen, followed more sedately by his grandmother, aunt and cousin.

\-------------------------------

“Uncle Harry, Uncle Harry, is that you?”

Harry swears under his breath. Teddy. Of course. He turns.

“Hello Teddy, where’s your Grandma and Mrs Longbottom?”

“I knew it was you,” cries Teddy, jumping up on his back. “You used to paint your flat in those old clothes. Why are you coming to Mrs Longbottom’s house this way? The gate’s over there.”

Harry knows there’s only one thing for it - “Can you keep a secret Ted?”

Teddy nods vigorously, “Were you trying to escape? Mrs Longbottom’s pretty scary isn’t she.”

“I’m John MacNab, or part of him anyway, the other part is down by the gate," Harry announces, and Teddy’s eyes widen with awe. “I’m going to attack the wards over here to draw Mrs Longbottom away from the hen shed."

Teddy shakes his head slowly, “Not going to work.”

“Why?” demands Harry.

“Heard her talking - she reckons John MacNab will try to distract her so she says she’s sticking by her hens. I came with Grandma and Great Aunt Narcissa and Cousin Draco for a morning call earlier. She’s got the Elves to move the tea table out into the farmyard, and we’re taking tea by the hen shed. Aunt Narcissa is pulling a very funny face.”

“I bet she is,” says Harry. “But what are we going to do Ted? I’ve got to get them all over here so King-, so the real John MacNab can nip in and get the hen.”

“Kingsley, you mean?” asks Teddy with a shrewd look. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” He sits in the heather next to Harry.

“Why don’t you kidnap me?” he asks brightly, “Threaten me and then they’ll all come after me.”

Harry shakes his head, “Not a bad idea Ted, but I couldn’t do that to your Grandmother, not after what happened in the war.”

Teddy nods, “You mean Mum and Dad, and Grandad. I suppose not.” He munches a bit of heather. “It’s nearly lunchtime, why don’t I just not turn up, then they’ll all have to come and look for me. It won’t worry Grandma, she’ll just think I forgot the time.”

Harry hums, “That might just work, Tedster. Let’s see...”

\-----------------------------------------------------

Kingsley hangs around the farmyard, out of sight and then retreats to the old stables when two gnarled old House Elves appear bearing an ornate wooden table and chairs, floating a silver tea service behind them, and set them down next to a small squat barn.

Hearing the clink of china he peers out and sees Narcissa Malfoy and her son, in formal tweed morning robes, sitting down to tea with Augusta and Andromeda Tonks. He looks at his watch - elevenses - a good hour left until Harry was going to start attacking the wards. Time to start looking for that hen shed.

After a fruitless search he suddenly he becomes aware of movement around the tea table and the anxious voice of Andromeda Tonks, “Where on earth can Teddy have got to? It’s almost lunch and he’s usually so hungry he’s jumping up and down demanding food by now.”

“Draco used to be the same. I do miss that, he so rarely shows _anything_ these days,” says Narcissa. “It’s as though his upbringing with Lucius, and the trials and the shame have stamped out everything - I’d almost be grateful for one of his old tantrums, if it meant I knew what he was thinking.”

Kingsley can’t pick up what is said next, but he’s heard enough to realise that both Teddy and Draco must be wandering around somewhere. This is getting tricky.

Ten minutes later Andromeda, Augusta and Narcissa have set off towards the woods, calling for Teddy, and Draco’s gone inside. It’s time.

 

After a number of false starts finally Kingsley opens the small squat shed next to the tea table and swears loudly.

“How the Merlin’s beard am I supposed to know which of them’s the prize hen?”

It’s Wizarding Space and there have to be at least 50 chickens of various shapes, sizes and breeds, and Kingsley’s not exactly an expert on poultry, though he doesn’t mind a good roast on a Sunday. He steps forward uncertainly and starts to look for a particularly rotund or fluffy looking hen. The birds don’t take too kindly to his presence, and as he starts after first one and then another he soon finds himself surrounded by angry clucking birds pecking at what remains of his ragged trousers.

Ten minutes later and Kingsley’s cursing the name of John MacNab in no uncertain terms and wishing he was back in a regulatory reform committee meeting - even, he thinks, one chaired by Percy Weasley. Every time he reaches for a bird there’s a flurry of feathers and wings and, oh wonderful, shit. Sweaty, exhausted, and sneezing from the dust he pulls out the wand,

“ _Accio_ Augusta Longbottom’s prize hen.” There’s a spark and a squawk and then a mouth full of feathers.

He picks himself up from the floor, slightly concussed and tucks the struggling bird under his arm and heads for the door. Hopefully Weasley’s down by the front gate ready to take the blasted bird off the premises.

\--------------------------------  
As the sun moves towards its zenith Harry comes to a decision. There’s no way he’s going to do anything to worry Andromeda, not when it’s taken her ten years to start to come to terms with the loss of her daughter, husband and son-in-law. She’s only been able to hold it together for Teddy’s sake, and thank goodness for that. They have such a strong bond and anyone who’s seen her with the boy when he’s ill, even with a minor cold, can see that her whole being is bound up in him.

“Let’s get over to the boundary Ted,” he says. “It’s nearly lunchtime so they’re bound to come looking for you sooner or later. I only hope they all come - if they just send Malfoy Kingsley won’t be able to get anywhere near the hen house.

As they walk along the crest of a ridge there’s a movement below and Harry pulls Teddy to the ground. Then he relaxes, it’s just a herd of deer downwind, who have sensed their presence and have decided to get out of the way.

“What do you do when you’re playing on your own Ted?” he asks, with a sudden idea.

Teddy looks up from where his nose is buried in the turf. “I usually pretend to play Quidditch, or Dragon Magi,” he says. “Why?”

“Do what you normally do,” says Harry, pulling him to his feet. “But do it loudly.”

The deer are running now and Harry can see flashes of colour between the trees in the coppice below. Someone’s on their way, anyhow, and by their pace he reckons it’s Andromeda and her sister, possibly even Mrs Longbottom. Hopefully all three. He beckons Teddy to the exposed side of the ridge and his appearance is greeted by a shout from below. Ted, responding to Harry’s rapid signals, affects not to hear, and when Harry jerks his thumb towards the wards Ted bounds joyfully into the distance taking care to intersperse the leaps with war-like cries that cannot fail to draw, but hopefully also reassure, his relatives.

\----------------------------------------

Now Malfoy, thinks Harry, time to dirty those pristine tweeds and get a bit of mud and sweat in that ridiculously neat hair. Harry thinks he’s probably somewhere near the hens - surely they won’t have been left unguarded - so a more personal approach is needed here.

He creeps closer to the house but far enough to make a quick escape. Winding Malfoy up is probably the best way to make him lose his temper, and then - hopefully - his caution. It worked in school anyway, so here goes.

He catches a glimpse of Malfoy standing and alert, newspaper in hand, eyes shielded against the midday sun. He fires a stunner, purposely astray - that’s for yesterday, he thinks - and then crashes into the undergrowth. The fish is hooked, now to reel him in.

There follows one of the longest afternoons of Harry’s recent life. His intention is to lead Malfoy to the opposite side of the estate, where the gentler hills of the coast turn into craggy ridges and corries and after days spent studying the contours both on paper and the ground, Harry thinks he’ll have the edge. The sun is blazing and the afternoon air is still and heavy apart from the periodic crack of branches and and apparition, and - when Harry lets Malfoy get very close - panting and cursing. Running, tripping, jumping, Harry’s not sure he’s felt this throbbing sense of purpose and freedom for years.

He’s teasing Malfoy now, popping into view, sprinting, firing a wobbly stunner or two and then apparating. Malfoy looks livid, although that could just be the heat and exertion, and he’s running and leaping with an abandon Harry certainly didn’t expect, and he’s thinking as he slips, and then falls that -

Merlin, Malfoy’s fast. He’s going to be here any moment and Harry’s scrabbling in the bracken for his wand. He’s going to have to apparate if he’s to get away, and - oh shit.

“ _Accio_ wand” he whispers, holding out his hand.

Not loud enough or maybe not near enough. When did he last have it anyway? He’s been playing hide and seek with Malfoy the last, what, hour or so, far more fun than apparating. Oh hell - he’s going to have to double back.

There’s an ominous crack behind him and Harry dives for the only cover he can see - the boggy ground leads down to an even boggier stream, where the banks will hide him from view providing he stays below the rim. He flings himself horizontally and head first - - and nearly chokes on peat and water. Now to lie low.

Malfoy’s taking his time hunting around, even going as far as to wade some way along the burn himself, and Harry has leisure to feel the stream take him as its own, the chilly water entering at his collar and flowing to the very tip of his boots. He’s sometimes wondered if there’s a hidden appeal to bog-snorkelling, which, on the surface, appears so daft and British. He concludes, a long fifteen minutes later, that the sport has no redeeming features whatsoever.

At last it seems Malfoy’s given up and is heading home. Looking at his watch Harry can see that Kingsley has had plenty of time to grab the hen and run. Now all he’s got to do is find his bloody wand and get out of here.

Malfoy’s dawdling now, no doubt tired out from the unaccustomed exercise, as is Harry, if he’s honest with himself. As they approach a stile that Harry doesn’t think he saw on the way over he hangs back behind a boulder to wait for Malfoy to cross.

Malfoy jumps and there’s a very odd sound and an almighty shriek that almost has Harry starting forward in sudden fear. He relaxes however as the subsequent flow of swear words - Muggle and Wizarding - reassures him that whatever’s happened it’s unpleasant rather than catastrophic. Intrigued he crawls from tuft to tuft until he can get a good look.

Slapping a hand across his mouth he throws himself back down, torn between giggling and vomiting. The stench from the gassy, bloated sheep is really most unpleasant and Malfoy is knee deep in entrails. He must have landed with some force to make the carcass explode like that. Still, he’s well occupied, and it gives Harry the chance he needs.


	7. Chapter 7

“You again?” he hears a voice, “I thought I told you to clear off once you’d had your bit to eat?”

Kingsley could not be more thankful that Ron has just removed the incriminating evidence. He hopes that in the confusion and with the sheer number of chickens clucking about, that Mrs Longbottom will not notice one missing.

“Right young man,” she says, arms crossed across her impressively large bosom. “I’m sorry, but I can’t have you hanging around today. In the barn with you - I’ll let you out later with some food if you sit there nice and quietly.”

Kingsley considers making a run for it and perhaps Augusta realises this, because with an impressive bellow of “Draco, come and make yourself useful,” she beckons and the younger Malfoy strolls into the farmyard.

“Yes, Mrs Longbottom. Can I assist in anyway? Is this tramp causing you trouble?”

“Come along with you,” says Augusta, taking Kingsley by one filthy arm. Malfoy takes the other and he is frogmarched into a dry but somewhat smelly barn.

“Check him for wands,” instructs Augusta and Malfoy, looking horrified starts, gingerly, to pat him down.

Kingsley takes pity on him and pulls out the broken wand, “That’s all I have left of the magical world,” he says with pathos.

Malfoy takes the wand and gives it an experimental flick, “You won’t be getting far with that, but I know what it’s like to lose your wand,” he tosses it to Kingsley, who does his best to look pathetically grateful.

Kingsley tries the door but it’s well and truly bolted. He tries shouting, to keep in character if anything, and Draco’s head appears at the window, “Cut out the noise and I’ll bring you some bread and water for lunch. Sorry, I really don’t like doing this. I’ll come and let you out when she’s calmed down a bit."

Kingsley sits on an upturned bucket and pulls Ron’s wand out of his pocket to fiddle with. Much use that will be to him now he’s trapped. He decides to wait it out philosophically.

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
The heat of the day is diminishing when the barn door opens again, and despite the gloom Kingsley can make out the stolid features of Neville Longbottom, wielder of the Sword of Gryffindor et cetera. There have been shouts at various points in the afternoon but no one seems to have linked him with them, and for that he’s grateful.

“Come along, sorry about all that but my grandmother's a bit worried about intruders today,” explains Neville, offering a hand.

Kingsley tucks the broken wand back in his pocket but it’s too late.

“That’s -” Neville takes it in one giant fist. “I know that wand, what are you doing with Ron Weasley’s old wand you dirty thief?”

His eyes are glinting with steel and before Kingsley knows it he’s being twisted towards the door and into the light.

“Kingsley?!” The wand clatters to the floor and Neville stares, open-mouthed.

“Sorry,” says Kingsley, “You’ve caught me.”

He holds his hands up, “I’m John MacNab.”

Neville stands stock still. “Seriously?” he says, after a long pause, and then his face lights up with humour. “You’ve certainly given my grandmother a good time today, I don’t know when she last had this much fun.”

“Are you going to hand me over?” Kingsley asks, but he thinks he knows the answer.

“I certainly feel like it,” says Neville with emphasis. “I’ve spent the entire day on guard duty.”

“Looks like you drew the short straw,” says Kingsley, observing his guano spotted clothes and the straw in his hair. “You might even look worse than me.“

“My Gran,” replies Neville. “She wanted me to bring the Sword of Gryffindor home from Hogwarts. I told her it doesn’t work like that, but she wouldn’t believe, so -” he shrugs.

“So?” says Kingsley into the silence. ”Are you going to turn me in?”

“Not now, anyway - the Malfoys are here.” He beckons, “Come along, let’s get you out of this before Draco comes looking. Can’t have the Minister of Magic seen like this.”

 

\-----------------------------------------

Later that evening...

“So what else happened today Ted?”

Teddy, with an unholy grin on his face takes time to make sure he has the attention of the whole party, who have already been listening to Harry and Kingsley’s accounts.

“Well Mrs Longbottom started to tell Grandma and Great Aunt Narcissa about the challenge by John MacNab and the tramp who was asking for bread, and she said they could help her defend her property seeing as they’ve taken to visiting at such an innopper - inooper - inconvenient time. So Aunt Narcissa told her about the challenge on the peacocks. Cousin Draco says now that he thinks he’s seen John MacNab, and he doesn’t look anything like the tramp, but it might be an accomplice.”

Hermione’s giggling, “How did Mrs Longbottom describe the Minister, Teddy?”

Ted looks at the Minister, “She said he looked like a Wizard who had come down in the world. Probably through drink.”

Kingsley chokes, looks contemplatively at his whisky, and sets it down.

“What happened next?”

“Well, Cousin Draco said he’d go and 'check the perimenter’ and then they started talking about how the ceilidh was going to help Cousin Draco find a wife because he's getting old and his alarm clock is ticking, and then it got really boring, so I decided to go and look for John MacNab myself. Then I found Uncle Harry. He wasn’t hiding very well.”

“Call yourself an Auror?" Ron chucks a cushion and Harry hurls it back as Teddy continues.

“Grandma wouldn’t let me have any cake for tea, because I caused such a bother.” He looks hopefully at Harry, who winks and tosses him a Chocolate Frog.

“Has Mrs Longbottom realised Kingsley got away with it?” asks Luna.

Teddy nods, “Oh yes, she went to the hen house after tea and she said straightaway that Christabel had gone. She sent Draco to bring you up from the barn, but Uncle Neville said he’d already let you out. Cousin Draco used some very bad words,” he ends reflectively.

“I need a bath then early bed,” says Kingsley, standing up and stretching. “I’ve got to send that bird back tomorrow before they’re all up, along with the two hundred galleons. Still, it was worth it. I’ve had enough of dirt and danger for now. Time to get back to the real world.”

“Not before you’ve helped us,” says Ron. “Come on Ted, we’ll take you home.”


	8. Chapter 8

Exhausted and stiff after the previous day’s exercise Harry is sleepily getting the milk bottles from the doorstep when a figure blocks out the morning sun. There’s no time to warn Kingsley before Augusta Longbottom has stormed the threshold and settled herself with a sniff in the best armchair.

“Really, Mr Shacklebolt, did you take me for a fool? My prize hen spent the day in the dog kennel along with my Grandson.”

“But -" says Kingsley, starting up from the sofa and scattering political papers.

“You stole my old prize hen. She’s worth nothing now, I just haven’t got round to wringing her neck and putting her in the pot. She costs me a fortune - always pecking me and the others, and stealing their feed. I've left her with your House Elves."

For once Kingsley’s clearly at a loss, and Harry thinks it’s up to him to save the day.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mrs Longbottom - what, exactly, are you suggesting?”

She points an accusatory finger at the Minister, who looks, if anything, like a naughty boy who’s been caught scrumping apples.

“Kingsley Shacklebolt, hen thief!”

Kingsley looks like he’s trying to make himself look imposing, but Augusta Longbottom probably knew him as a boy, and she’s having none of it.

“Come now Kingsley, the game’s up.”

The Minister of Magic deflates, sighs and looks up into the twinkling eyes of his accuser. He holds out his hands, which are covered in scratches and pecks. “My apologies Mrs Longbottom. I’m not sure what came over me.”

She looks at him seriously, “It’s the drink Kingsley, I’ve suspected for a while.”

  
\-------------------------

It’s not going to be easy to meet Malfoy after yesterday’s fiasco but there’s his own mission to think of. It all seems to be getting a bit incestuous, and when Malfoy starts to recount what happened at the Longbottom’s it becomes harder and harder to remember what he is supposed to know and what he isn’t. He slips up more than once by laughing in expectation of the punchline and eventually decides it’s safest just to lapse into silence and let Malfoy do the talking.

Malfoy doesn’t seem to mind at first - he always did like the sound of his own voice - but after a while he seems to catch Harry’s mood. As they pause at one of those funny little enclosed gates he blocks the way, arms across chest.

“Come on, what’s up?”

Harry shrugs, “What do you mean?”

“I’m telling you an absolutely hilarious story which involves me spending much of the day up to my waist in bog, completely ruining my favourite tweeds I might add, and helping mad old ladies guard mangy old hens, and you’ve entirely failed to laugh in the right places.”

“Maybe it’s the way you tell them?” suggests Harry, trying valiantly not to laugh at Malfoy’s indignation.

Malfoy snorts. “I’ll have you know that my skills as a raconteur are widely acclaimed in both parliament and high society, and I don’t usually have material this good.”

But his next words are quiet and strained, and he won’t meet Harry’s eye. “You’ve heard haven’t you?”

Caught off balance by this non sequitur Harry shakes his head, “What do you mean?”

“You’ve asked around and now you know who I am. It’s one thing meeting a random bloke on holiday, and another making friends with Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and notorious criminal.”

“You weren’t a _proper_ Death Eater,” says Harry before he can stop himself.

Malfoy’s mouth twists. “So you have asked about me, and now you don’t know how to tell me, let’s see, you ‘need to go home early and deal with an emergency that’s cropped up at work?’ You needn’t bother being kind Jamie. Most people just ditch me - if they were ignorant enough to approach me in the first place.”

“Have there been many people do that?”

“Pretty much all the -” he glances at Harry, “- people - I’ve tried to date since school. Or be friends with for that matter."

“I won’t,” says Harry, meeting his eye. He means it, he does. When all this is over and they go back to their old lives he’s going to seek out Malfoy and see if, perhaps, they could be friends.

“Come on,” says Malfoy, but he looks pleased. He passes through the little gate and then leans on the rail, blocking Harry. “Do you know what Muggles call these?”

Harry shakes his head - Petunia in twin-set, pearls and walking boots just doesn’t compute.

“Kissing gates,” says Malfoy, swinging open the gate, “But don’t worry, I won’t insist.”

“I -,” mumbles Harry, half under his breath and possibly without the engagement of his brain.

Malfoy says nothing, but the smile on his face as he turns away says it all, and for the first time Harry is moved to wonder if his friends have a point - perhaps all this is a little cruel.

 

When they reach the harbour, and Malfoy tells Harry sternly to keep away from the edge this time, Harry remembers his purpose.

“Would you like to go out on Saturday night? I’ve found a nice Muggle fish restaurant in Mallaig.” He waits, if it doesn’t work out today there’s always tomorrow and Friday to try again - and that would be alright.

“That would be lovely,” says Malfoy, but he’s frowning and tapping his thigh. For a moment Harry thinks he’s blown it this time. Maybe Malfoy’s starting to get suspicious, or maybe there’s just absolutely no way he’s going to invite a Squib to a Pureblood party.

He looks like he’s coming to a decision. “Do you happen to have dress robes - ah Sorry, I forgot. Have you got a dinner jacket in your rucksack? My parents are having a ceilidh on Saturday night up at the house - quite a big affair. I can’t possibly skip it, much as I’d love to, but maybe you could come along.”

Harry’s about to agree enthusiastically when the mention of his rucksack jolts him to his task. Oh yes, he’s supposed to be a hillwalking photography enthusiast. Jamie’s probably supposed to be living in a tent - thank Merlin Malfoy hasn’t asked to see it. Being out of the field so long seems to have dulled his wits.

He shakes his head, “I’m afraid I didn’t think to pack a Dinner suit, or tweeds or any of the other things you probably consider de rigeur up here. Won’t everybody be in formal robes anyway?”

“My father’s going for a more Muggle-born friendly image. He wouldn’t be seen dead in a Muggle suit himself of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see a few around. I’d wear one myself if I thought he wouldn’t be apopletic, and my mother would bear the brunt of it so...” he shrugs. “I could get one of my house elves to collect one from my flat in London - they’d easily adjust it for you.”

“Thanks,” says Harry. “That would be great, if your House Elves have time - they must be pretty busy before the party.”

Malfoy looks nonplussed, and for a moment Harry has a glimpse of the spoilt, thoughtless boy he used to know.

“It’ll be fine. I’ll send them over to you tomorrow. Where are you staying? I keep forgetting to ask.”

“Hostels and B&Bs,” says Harry, thinking quickly. “Moving around a bit. It’s probably easier if I come up to the house." Another look at the Malfoy property wouldn’t go amiss - he’s still not found the blasted peacocks and Hermione’s starting to give him funny looks.

“I’ll be helping my mother with the preparations, and keeping my little cousin occupied,” says Malfoy, “But I’ll lower the wards again and send the Elves to you in the summer house with the clothes and invitation - it’s magical in itself so it will get you through the wards on the night.”

Harry nods and he can’t help thinking it’s probably a good idea - one more afternoon with Malfoy and he’ll probably unwittingly give the whole game away.

“By the way,” says Harry. “What the fuck did you hit me with the other day? It felt like an elephant had been jumping on my head the next morning and it still hurts when I move it now.”

“Ah,” says Malfoy, pulling out his wand and twiddling it. “I may have overreacted when you started to struggle. So I sort of stunned you. Quite hard.”

“You don’t say,” says Harry. “Next time try something that wouldn’t take down a Hippogriff, hey?”

“If you’re stupid enough to fall in again, Potter, I’ll leave you to drown.” In the sudden silence Harry can hear the ‘plop’ as a lone fish breaks the surface. Malfoy freezes, two red blotches appearing on his cheeks. “Sorry, I - Actually I really have no idea why I said that.”

“Who’s Potter? _The_ Potter?” Harry manages to say calmly, but his body is on edge, his heart racing.

Malfoy looks at him strangely, “I kept thinking you reminded me of someone, looks and voice actually, and when you said that - I - I don’t know, it just came out.”

“Okay,” begins Harry. “It’s fine, really. Must be subconscious.”

“Perhaps,” says Malfoy, uncertainly.

“See you soon,” says Harry. It’s definitely time to get away.

He’s walking towards the fish and chip shop when he hears a shout.

“Jamie, my parents, they -”

“Yeah, I get it.” says Harry. “Don’t worry.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Draco’s not so bad,” says Teddy the following day as he helps Hermione and Harry pluck the chicken - Christabel - for Sunday dinner. Plinky is wringing his hands as he watches and collects the blown feathers from the lawn. Plunket is sulking inside, having refused to allow Hermione into her own kitchen.

“I sincerely doubt that," mutters Ron, scowling.

Teddy pouts and turns his hair blond, “He’s one of the only family I have left, and family is Very Important," he capitalises. “Anyway, he’s found all his old Martin Miggs comics for me, and we’re building a kennel for Spangles the Muggle way. He keeps getting splinters and swearing."

A sudden gust of wind scatters the feathers all over the garden and they run laughing to pick them up. Kingsley, who is writing an owl to his wife on the back step, looks up and with a “What’s going on? Oh I see, want a hand with that?” he joins the fray.

“Teddy! - Teddy!"

They look at each other in shock, and before Kingsley and Harry have time to escape, Draco Malfoy is amongst them.

“Sorry to intrude Granger, I thought I might find young Ted here.” He turns to Teddy, “It’s lunch in an hour, you’ll need to change -”

He does a double-take. “Don’t I -?”

It is unfortunate that Kingsley spent the morning making mud dams in the burn with Teddy because he now looks undeniably like both Minister of Magic and the disreputable John MacNab. There is silence as they watch Malfoy visibly put two and two together.

“You’re John MacNab!”

Kingsley holds his hands up, “ _Cedamus!_ ”

 

Harry starts to back towards the garden shed but he trips over the bucket of chicken feathers.

“You!” shouts Malfoy. He looks from Harry’s bespectacled face and untidy hair to the worn Green Day t-shirt.

“Potter. It is you, it’s always you. You complete and utter shit.” He’s flushed and angry looking, and a little bit hurt. Harry feels horribly horribly guilty.

“So what’s going on?” he asks, arms folded protectively across his chest. “Thought you’d use me to get into the grounds did you? Manoeuvring me into inviting you to the ceilidh? Well I saw through you,” but he’s biting his lip and he doesn’t sound very convincing.

Hermione’s looking from Harry to Malfoy and back again in consternation and dawning awareness.

“Go home Teddy,” grinds out Malfoy. “Tell them I’m unavoidably detained, but nothing about this. Am I clear?”

Teddy nods.

“I’ll give you a lift Ted,” says Hermione. “Come _on_. Ron.”

She draws Ron, still protesting, through the garden gate.

Kingsley looks between the two of them. “I’ll be upstairs, finishing a letter to my wife.”

“So,” says Malfoy, as soon as they are alone. “When were you planning on telling me.” He shakes his head, “You were never going to tell me, were you? You were just going to piss off halfway through the ceilidh, and leave me feeling like an idiot.”

“No, I... Malfoy,” starts Harry, dismayed. “It wasn’t -”

Malfoy continues, pacing up and down the garden path. “I knew there was something funny about you from the start, but I let myself be pulled in. I even thought you looked a bit like Harry Potter, and that’s probably -” he trails off.

“Probably what?” Harry asks, his heart hammering in his chest. He approaches Malfoy, palms flat and open.

“Nothing,” says Malfoy dully. “So, you and Kingsley are in it then. Anyone else?”

“Ron,” says Harry. Something’s happening here, but he’s not sure what.

“Of course,” nods Malfoy.

“Don’t be fighting Harry Potter! Plunket is needing the chicken,” says Plinky, from the back door where Plunket is peering, probably checking that Hermione isn’t around.

“Oh, sorry,” says Harry, handing over the half-plucked chicken. He sits heavily on the bench.

“And the bucket, Harry Potter. Plinky is needing to be tidying the feathers.”

Malfoy passes the pail of feathers, “Leave us, Plinky.”

The Elf retreats to the kitchen door to confer with Plunket, but he won’t go inside.

“I think we’re frightening the Elves,” says Malfoy, sitting down opposite. His features are forbidding but at least, Harry thinks, he’s not stormed off.

 

“I’m sorry. It was my plan to get you to invite me, but - ," Harry breaks off sighing. “I’m so confused now I’m not sure what I was thinking - except that I was starting to like you.”

“Did you want to invite me to the ceilidh, Draco?” he asks after a long pause where they both stare angrily at the picnic bench.

Draco pushes damp strands of hair from his flushed forehead and regards Harry in stony silence.

“Draco?”

“Yes. Yes I did.” he admits. “Happy now?”

Harry takes a deep breath. “No.”

Draco scowls, “I’m sorry, wasn’t that sufficiently humiliating for your taste? Would you like me to take out an announcement in the Prophet? Ask you live on Wizarding Wireless?” He gets up from the bench, voice cracking, “I can’t take this.”

Something in his voice finally propels Harry into action, and he reaches to grasp Draco’s arm. “No. It doesn’t make me happy to have tricked you, and, er, disappointed you.”  
Draco stills, but he doesn’t brush off Harry’s hand, “No one said anything about disappointed.”

Harry doesn’t think he’s going to get any further encouragement, so it’s all up to him now. “I really enjoyed the time we spent together and I wanted to see you, but as me, not some Muggle naturalist. I had already decided I would come and find you in London afterwards.”

There’s a sigh, and then,“Naturist” corrects Draco, but there’s a note of humour that makes Harry look up to meet pale grey eyes in relief.

“Drink?”  
“I accept,” says Draco. “But don’t think this is over yet, not by a long shot.”

Harry smiles faintly at him as he turns towards Plinky, “It’s all right now. Drinks please.”

 

“I really am sorry too, you know,” says Draco. “For school - for everything really.”

“I know, and I wish I could make it up to you for this -” says Harry, waving his hand between them.

“There is something,” says Draco, looking at him consideringly. “My mother has never forgiven herself for letting her lunatic sister torture Granger.”

“I don’t think she exactly ‘let’ her,” puts in Harry.

Draco shrugs, “She always wishes she could have done more - to save me, to save Granger, to save Luna. She says it all felt like some terrible nightmare and she kept thinking she was going to wake up, but - she didn’t.”

“I think saving the Wizarding world probably makes up for it,” says Harry, briefly touching Draco’s hand where it lies clenched on the bleached wood of the picnic table. “What is it? I’ll do it if I can.”

“Can you get Granger and Weasley to come to this Ceilidh? I know Weasley probably thinks it’s all some kind of publicity stunt for my father’s party, but she does really want them to come. A sign of public forgiveness, if you will.”

Harry’s tempted to promise - after all, he knows Hermione’s keen to go - but he’s vowed to himself that there will be no more subterfuge; not with Draco at least, he’s been hurt and humiliated enough.

“I’ll try,” he says, “But I won’t need to try very hard. ‘Mione already wants to go and she’s very convincing. I expect she’ll have brought Ron round to the idea by tomorrow morning.”

Draco grimaces, “I’m not sure I want to think about that. Thanks Potter.”

“Harry,” says Harry. “You have a horrifyingly dirty mind.”

“Thank you, Harry,” he corrects, and Harry knows he’s grateful for more than he’s saying.

It’s threatening to become a bit intense, but “So how did your mother come to make peace with Luna?” is all he can think to say.

“Oh that,” smiles Draco. “No need really. She used to take Luna face cream when she was locked in our cellar.”

“Face cream?” asks Harry, bewildered.

“She wanted to do her bit,” says Draco.

“Um -” says Harry, unable to quite express his thoughts in the face of Draco’s superb nonchalance.

“It was very _good_ face cream,” says Draco, and Harry shakes his head. There’ll always be something about this family that he doesn’t quite understand.


	10. Chapter 10

“You realise that most Muggles never make it as far as the ha-ha, and those that do are in a poor state."

Harry looks at him, horrified.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” Draco snaps, “ _I_ did the wards, so it’s only notice-me-not charms and a gastroenteritis hex. Luckily for you. I knew the moment I saw you standing upright that you weren’t a Muggle.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” asks Harry, fumbling to make sense of what happened. Draco’s mercurial mood changes are leaving him breathless and, yes, he’ll admit it, a little intrigued.

“I didn’t know what you were up to did I? We’ve had this challenge, and the place is crawling with press for my parent’s party. I wanted to get a bit closer and find out what you doing. I knew you weren’t what you said you were, but I didn’t realise that _everything_ -. well -” he sips his beer and Harry follows suit.

Wiping foam from his mouth Malfoy smiles wanly “And if all that hadn’t told me, I’d have realised when you announced you were a _naturist_. Honestly Potter, if you’re the cream of the Auror corps I shudder for the safety of Wizarding Britain. First rule of undercover work - get your back-story straight.”

Harry groans into his hands, “I didn’t even realise until you said. I really am an idiot, aren’t I?”

“Was that a rhetorical question?" asks Draco.

“Was that?” says Harry looking up. He feels an urge to come clean for once and for all, “So I guess you’ll be relieved to hear I’m no longer the Head of the Auror Department.”

Draco stares at him, “That’s not been announced, and we get all the papers owled here.”

“It’s not been made public yet,” says Harry, “It only happened last week. They’re still looking for a replacement.”

Draco pauses, then, “I’d say your friend Weasley would make a good Head Auror.”

Harry’s thoughts must be obvious because Draco flushes, “Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate his skills.” He sets down his glass. “Any more beer?”

Harry can only nod. He can hear the others are back but no one’s been to check if they’re still alive, and for that he’s grateful.

 

“Will you join us?” he asks impulsively, a little later.

“In your little game? Don’t you think I have enough of a criminal record?

“No-one cares about that now, Draco.” says Harry a little stupidly.

Pained grey eyes say it all. “I haven’t forgotten, and neither has Granger, nor Weasley, I’ll warrant.”

“‘Mione seems to quite like you these days,” offers Harry.

“Well that’s alright then. Just the rest of Wizarding Britain - shouldn’t take long.”

“It’s only a game,” says Harry.

“A dangerous game,” says Draco, shaking his head. “I don’t think I have the nerve.”

Harry scrapes the foam from the side of his glass. “I’d bail you out if you got caught.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” says Draco, obliquely.

“Do you still think this is a set up?”

“I’d say that would be rather over-estimating your intelligence, Potter,” says Draco.

“Go on,” pushes Harry. “We’ve never been on the same side before. It’ll be fun.”

Draco flicks the pile of shredded leaves across the table, “And what would your sidekicks say?”

“It doesn’t matter what other people think.”

“You don’t mean that. You’ve got a media handler, for Merlin’s sake. What will he say when they find out you’re associating with me? Or is this only a Christmas truce?”

Harry’s silent for a moment. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. I just thought it would be interesting.”

Draco doesn’t actually _say_ ‘you surprise me’, but his eyebrows do. “Forgive me if I don’t want to give up my hard won freedom, and the little respect I have gained, for a few days of fun and games with the Golden Trio.”

“Another?” asks Harry. He has a feeling that if Draco goes now, he’ll never see him again, and whilst that would have been no loss with the old Draco, it’s a different matter with the charged, restrained man opposite. For the first time he wonders if things could have been different - but he shakes his head. He long ago learnt that his past isn’t an attractive destination.

“Alright,” says Draco. “But make it a whisky. A good one.”

“You can have the bottle,” offers Harry.

“That won’t be necessary,” says Draco with a small smile.


	11. Chapter 11

“Some ‘naturist’ you are. They’re not _Albin_ o peacocks,” scoffs Draco later, a lot later. “They’ve got a genetic malformation called ‘leucism’, my father thought the combination of white purity and the name rather amusing. He was most displeased to have them called albinos, I can tell you.”

Malfoy talking genetics? Harry thinks he must be a little drunk, and that can’t be a good idea, not in this company.

“Come on,” says Harry. “Don’t tell me you’re not a little bit tempted? When was the last time something this exciting happened up here?”

“Historically?” Draco raises his eyebrows. “The 1743 Haggis massacre, probably.”

“Haggis massacre? I didn’t think they were actually real,” says Harry, dubiously. He’s starting to have a suspicion that Draco likes teasing him, strange concept though that may be.

“Hunted to extinction by my Great Great Great Grandfather. Though it was probably better than being hunted by my Great Great Great Uncle Malus,” says Draco with a grin.

“Did he have a thing against Haggis? Haggi, er, whatever?”

“For,” says Draco briefly.

“What? Oh. Nice.”

“It was always said that he had to do it standing on one leg,” says Draco with a wink and a smile that sends Harry’s thoughts tumbling.

“You don’t seem as upset as I thought you would be,” he says, before he can catch his tongue. Whisky is a terrible thing.

“You don’t seem as stupid as I thought you would be,” counters Draco and Harry wonders how he still has the capacity to make snarky comebacks when Harry only has intermittent mastery of his tongue.

“It wasn’t about you, you know. You just were a victim of circumstance.” Harry nods, pleased with himself - that sounds good.

“I didn’t mean to make you fall for me,” he adds.

Draco’s fingers still. “I didn’t fall for you. I fell for Jamie,” he says at last.

 _Oh_ \- “But Jamie is me,” says Harry. “Or I am Jamie.” He thinks a moment. “I don’t make sense any more, do I?”

“Don’t worry about it Potter,” says Draco sighing. “I’ve done much worse in my time.”

Harry looks at him dubiously. “If you say so.”

Finally Harry manages to express the question which has had him wondering all evening.

“Why? I’m bored Potter, stuck helping my mother prepare for a party that she and I know is a complete travesty. I may be on the same political side as my father, but that’s because I have no other real choice. Anyway, if you leave it to my father and his cronies, well, it won’t be pretty.”

“Better to have a political system that allows all parties, however bad and mad, than one which bans whichever views the ruling party doesn’t agree with,” says Harry, quite pleased with his ability to argue politics after four pints of beer and some, quite a lot, of whisky. He hopes Draco - huh - is impressed.

“Been talking to Granger again?” says Draco with a smirk that takes Harry straight back to Hogwarts. He holds up his hands, “Look, I don’t say I disagree -.”

Hermione’s otter _Patronus_ rounds the corner at speed, “Percy Weasley’s coming up the drive. Hide!”

Harry dives for the shed at the bottom of the garden where he is instantly joined by an apparating Kingsley, a single muddy dragonhide boot still his hand.

“Get in here,” he hisses, but Draco shakes his head and saunters back over to the house.

Kingsley raises his eyebrows, and Harry shrugs.

They can hear Percy’s pompous tones as he strides up the drive, and it soon becomes evident that this is not intended to be a fleeting visit.

“You should have told me you were staying near Audrey’s estate. We are, after all, family.”

They hear the murmur of Hermione’s voice.

Then “I quite understand; it is only natural that you would feel too over-whelmed by the grandeur of Audrey’s parents’ estate to feel comfortable visiting. That is why, when I heard that you were nearby, I thought I would come to you. I have a matter of considerable import to discuss. Where is my brother, perhaps we could take tea in the shade over by your, er, shed.”

Kingsley and Harry are frozen when Malfoy walks to the gate and blocks it, announcing, sorrowfully, “Spattergroit - terrible business Mrs Weasley, would it help if I were to notify the St Mungo’s Infectious Maladies team on your behalf? I am sure you have quite enough to do looking after your husband.”

He affects to have just seen Percy, “Good day Mr Under Secretary, I would advise you to leave the grounds immediately, one can never be too careful with Cerebrumus spattergroit. It is just fortunate that I recognised the symptoms when Mrs Weasley mentioned them in the village shop this morning.”

Hermione is nodding vigorously, and Percy takes a rapid step backwards.

\-----------------------------

“Phew! That was close,” says Ron, appearing from the cupboard under the stairs. “It’s pitch black in there, and I think there were _spiders_. I’ve had about as much as I can stand.” He sees Harry’s face, “Sorry mate. So, what did his Royal Highness want?”

“I imagine it was to discuss the challenge to his and Audrey’s estate,” says Malfoy, looking at Harry.

“Everything okay?” mouths Hermione. Harry shrugs, hard to tell really.

“Thanks for getting rid of him, good to see you putting those dramatic tendencies to good use,” Ron claps an enormous hand over Malfoy’s shoulder. “Let’s have a beer - you too.”

Draco looks surprised but follows them into the garden where Kingsley is trying to extricate his other boot from the thorn bush.

“ _You_ didn’t have to hide,” Hermione admonishes, as Ron hands round the beer, “He’s your brother and he knows perfectly well you’re here.”

“I know, but it was Percy.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Wakey wakey Harry!”

Harry turns over with a groan. There’s an insistent banging noise and his head is protesting vehemently. He rubs his fist through his hair and squints through the morning light, “What time is it?”

“Past lunchtime sleepy-head. What time did you get to bed last night, and where’s Malfoy?” asks Hermione in a voice that is far too loud and chipper.

Harry looks round, “I think he went home, it was pretty late. I don’t remember to be honest.”

Hermione eyes him with distaste, “You stink. What happened last night?”

Harry thinks back. He remembers pints with Malfoy, then more pints, this time with Ron too. Then it all gets a bit blurry.

“Did I really make it up with Malfoy?” he asks. Somehow the events of yesterday, maybe even the last week, don’t seem quite real.

“It certainly seemed like it,” says Hermione, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “But you were calling him Draco last night.”

Harry groans, “Did anything else happen?”

“Like what?” He doesn’t need to look up to see the amusement in her face, it’s all there in her voice.

Harry covers his face with hands, “You know -” he hopes he doesn’t have to spell it out. Hermione Granger is an intelligent woman.

“Hmm. You two always did like pulling each other's pigtails, and we all know what that means."

"I didn't," he says. He's in no mood for oblique references to the many things, Muggle and Wizarding, that he should but doesn't know, yet a-bloody-gain.

"Oh, Harry."

She sighs. "Anyway, I’m afraid we’ll have to put this fascinating discussion on hold for the moment, we’ve got more serious problems.”

Harry sits up, “What now?”

This whole thing’s just getting so crazy that anything could have happened, up to and including Lucius Malfoy on his doorstep.

“What’s that banging noise?” On reflection he doesn’t think it’s the hangover making that noise inside his head.

“That,” says Hermione, “Is our problem. Luna’s only gone and locked the local Magical Maladies Inspector in the coal cellar.”

His brain hurts, his head hurts and he’s pretty sure he’s started to imagine things. This can’t be good.

“Whilst you were sleeping this morning, and Ron, Kingsley and I were over at the Longbottom’s,” continues Hermione. “The Scottish Magical Maladies Inspector came to make official enquiries having received a tip off that we have an active Spattergroit infection. Luna was on her own - and really I’m not sure she’s been entirely with it since Rolf died, if ever - and she apparently decided the most sensible thing to do would be to lock him in the coal cellar.”

“Oh god. He’s not still there is he?” Harry asks.

“Oh yes,” says Hermione, and Harry actually wonders if she’s enjoying the whole debacle she set in motion. “Luna left a note for us and went out to take a look at those Northern Flobberworms. We’ve only just got back.”

“So he’s been in there for hours?”

“Yep.”

“In the dark.”

“Yep, she left his wand on the kitchen table.”

“With no food, water, etc?”

“Yep. Well, apart from a cup of tea.”

“Hermione,” starts Harry, his voice rising with every word. “Why are you telling me this and why is that poor man still in your bloody cellar?”

She smiles, and really he’s starting to question if she is entirely sane; the war, after all, has affected many people in different ways. “On considered reflection, Ron, Kingsley and I decided it should be your job to get him out. They’re hiding in the garden.”

“Why me?” he asks, and it’s the question he’s always been asking himself.

“Kingsley’s Minister for Magic,” she says, counting them off on her fingers, “Ron’s still in the employ of the Auror Department, I’m in the MLE. The only people who could do this without us potentially ending up in court for internal corruption and abuse of power are you, and Luna. And she’s buggered off.”

“Looks like it’s up to me then,” says Harry. “Again.”

She pats him on the shoulder, “That’s you, Our Saviour.”

 

Wilfred Clutterduck is, on first appearance, damp, black with soot, and very, very pissed off. He also appears to be the only person besides Draco Malfoy who has ever been immune to the appeal of the Boy Who Lived.

“This, Mr Potter, is a very serious offence,” he says with surprising gravitas for someone who puts Harry in mind of Petunia’s short-lived Aga phase.

“I know, Mr Clutterduck, and I really am most sorry,” begins Harry, again.

“Impeding a Medical Official in the line of duty alone can be punishable by a four week custodial sentence, not to mention the greater charges of kidnap and detention without -”

“Please, Mr Clutterduck, you must be most uncomfortable. Could we discuss this after you’ve had a bath and a hot meal, at least?”

Harry’s not even sure that is going to work but after a moment the official nods, “That would be acceptable.”

After a lengthy bath, the destruction of Hermione’s best towels and a cup of cocoa the official has, to some extent, softened.

“Well Mr Potter, I accept that this was an accident, and if you can only offer me a reasonable explanation I think we can strike out the more serious accusations.”

A reasonable explanation, thinks Harry with rising hysteria, is one thing they haven’t got. He opens his mouth to say something, although he’s not sure what, when Luna breezes in.

“Oh hello, they let you out then? Sorry about that. Don’t blame Harry, he was drunk upstairs. It was me.”

Harry groans. Luna’s explanations are rarely enlightening.

“You?” demands Mr Clutterduck, looking noticeably taken aback, but, Harry notices, also a little flushed.

“I’m afraid I panicked. You see it was time for the Flobberworm breeding dance and I had to go and record it - I did try and explain but you seemed a little agitated. Come and sit down and I’ll tell you everything,” says Luna, smiling up at him as she takes his arm. Oh Luna, thinks Harry.

The official swallows, “That’s alright. I’m sure you had a perfectly good reason.”

Luna pats his arm, “That’s up to you to decide. You look like you have a sense of humour so I hope you won’t really hold it against us. Let’s have a nice chat.”

Harry is left standing in the dining room as she sweeps him out and into the cosy sitting room. He rather fancies he’s no longer needed.

 

By the time it comes to tea Wilfred Clutterduck, now on first name terms with them all, including Kingsley, of whom he is still rather shy, has decided to view the whole episode as a comedic intermission in his otherwise humdrum existence. Following up Spattergroit infection, it appears, comes secondary to his first love of disease-causing pests, and soon he and Luna are waving scones around engrossed in a very involved decision as to whether the Doxy is a venomous disease vector per Mr Clutterduck, or a misunderstood species in need of Ministry protection, as expounded in Luna’s most recent academic paper.

"Where are you going?" asks Hermione as Harry attempts to remove himself unobtrusively from the room.

He shrugs.

"Oh," she says, looking at him carefully.

It doesn't look like she's going to say any more. Relieved, he opens the door to the hallway.

"Harry?"

"Yes?" He turns.

"Have a bath."


	13. Chapter 13

When he gets to the summer house he’s not sure what he was expecting, but when he doesn’t find it he has to take a second to make sure. Then he firms his jaw - it’s off then. Only to be expected really. But as he turns to leave his eye is caught by a flash of peacock green fabric and he barely restrains a gasp - wards, curses, hexes Harry could have predicted; but a Muggle dinner suit? _Jus_ t a Muggle dinner suit. Could Malfoy be any more enigmatic, Harry wonders. Maybe he forgot to cancel, or the House Elves brought the suit down before he changed his mind. Maybe he's still in bed sleeping off his hangover. He fingers the soft fabric before giving it a surreptitious sniff. It even smells like Malfoy.

Five minutes later he’s still sitting there, wondering.

“Please Harry Potter Sir, you is creasing the suit.”

He jumps and turns to regard a small lop-eared House Elf. “Sorry,” he says, handing over the jacket, which is, he realises, now very crumpled.

“Mr Harry Potter Sir is to be standing up,” says the Elf looking at the suit with woebegone eyes.

“Er, right,” says Harry standing up and waiting in bemusement whilst the Elf whips a magical tape-measure around him.

When the Elf starts adjusting the suit with clicks of its - gender’s always tricky in these cases - fingers, he makes a decision.

“Is Master Malfoy around?”

The Elf frowns, “Master Malfoy is never being around when Mrs Tonks and Mr Lupin is here, Sir.”

Harry tries again, “No, I meant Master Draco Malfoy, is he here?”

The Elf looks, if anything, shifty - but it’s hard to tell. “Master Draco is not in the summer house. Ranky is needing to fit the trousers now Mr Harry Potter Sir.”

Harry obliges. “How is Master Draco?” he asks, hesitantly.

“Master Draco is being sick,” says the Elf at last and then pushes a needle into his knobbly thumb.

“Oh dear - Aagh, stop that!” cries Harry but his concern must show on his face because Ranky stops and looks up through weeping eyes, “Mr Harry Potter is worried?”

Harry briefly considers the ethics of the situation. “I am worried that Master Draco might be -” he thinks, “Unhappy.”

“Master Draco is -” begins the Elf.

“Master Draco is well, no thanks to you and Weasley, Potter,” breaks in a sharp voice from the door. Harry curses and yanks up the suit trousers.

Malfoy is drawn and pale and there is no answer to Harry’s hesitant smile.

“Hermione tells me we were on first name terms last night,” he tries, and then cringes.

“You can go, Ranky,” says Draco and the Elf bows himself out. Harry watches him go, there’s something odd about that Elf and it’s nagging at his mind.

“Sorry, I hope I haven’t dropped you in it with your father,” he says, buttoning up his own shirt.

Draco looks perplexed for a long moment. “Oh, right, pas devant les domestiques you mean? It’s fine. Ranky is loyal to me,” he adds.

“Thanks for the suit,” Harry tries again. “I honestly wasn’t expecting it after yesterday. I wasn’t sure if you’d just forgotten to tell the Elves.”

“I don’t forget things like that,” huffs Malfoy but his posture is softening and Harry takes the hint to sit down.

“Does this mean? -”

“How much can you actually remember of last night?” demands Malfoy, dropping onto the arm of the chair opposite, hands folded tensely in his lap.

Brought up short Harry hesitates. He never did get to finish his conversation with Hermione this morning, what with the Giant Flobberworms and ministry officials. He decides to go carefully.

“I can remember that we did a lot of apologising, and we got quite friendly, and we apparently stopped calling each other by our surnames, so I should probably call you Draco,” he says tentatively and is overwhelmingly relieved when Draco nods.

“And I asked you to join us on this, er, thing-”

“This insane and illegal PR disaster waiting to happen, you mean?” says Draco.

“That’s the one,” he says.

Draco raises an eyebrow, “And has Weasley come up with a cunning plan for his suicide mission at the Under Secretary’s - sorry, I meant brave and - Yeah, actually, suicide mission will do fine.”

“Ron’s got a plan - I think,” says Harry dubiously - he’s not really kept up with Ron and Luna’s reconnaissance missions this last week.

“Not as good as my plan, I’ll bet,” says Draco with a hint of the smugness Harry remembers from Potions.

“So you’re in?” he asks, hopefully.

“If you still want me -” offers Draco, adjusting his cuffs with precision.

“Absolutely,” replies Harry before he’s even finished, and he doesn’t miss the half smile quickly hidden.

“Somebody needs to uphold the sanctity and authority of Wizarding Government, and it really _is_ the most exciting thing to happen since 1743,” says Draco studying his nails carefully, and Harry laughs. It’s going to be alright.


	14. Chapter 14

No one’s been entirely sure what Ron’s plans are - he likes to play a close hand and they all know he’s a master strategist. Harry has pretty much left him to it - he’s got more important things to worry about anyway - but as the day of the raid on Audrey’s estate grows closer, he feels a growing sense of unease. Perhaps Draco’s plan will be needed but he doubts he can convince Ron of that.

Percy, despite his temporary reconciliation with the Weasleys during the war, is, frankly, a complete bastard. Harry, who has never had a family of his own, and is starting to think he never will, can hardly bear to see, let alone talk to the Under Secretary, when he bumps into him around the Ministry. Unfortunately he comes across him rather a lot as what Percy calls his ‘cross-cutting portfolio of regulatory reform’ seems to involve interfering in every department.

As he and Ron stare at the Cockburn estate through their omnioculars, he reflects that Audrey certainly does come from a different level of society, especially when compared to the Weasleys. It is intimidating, and for a moment - but no longer - he sympathises with Percy. It can’t be easy to go from the Burrow to this castle, which puts even Malfoy Manor to shame.

Whilst the Cockburns were technically neutral during the war, Harry and Kingsley have long suspected that they were supporting Voldemort behind the scenes. After the war they clearly hoped at first that they could realign themselves and remain at the top of Wizarding society, but as rumour after rumour followed in the press they must have realised it was going to take something more. Something like marrying their eldest daughter off to Percy Weasley who, given his reconciliation with the family most closely aligned with the Order of the Phoenix, and his premature seniority at the Ministry, was ideal for their purpose.

“Big place,” says Harry.

“Might even be big enough to contain Percy’s ego,” says Ron bitterly. “Bloody Pure-Blood Cockburns."

“I thought it was supposed to be pronounced ‘Co-burn’” says Harry, turning his omnioculars on the gatehouse.

“Yeah, but it seriously pisses Percy off if you say cock,” says Ron.

When Audrey’s parents were killed in a vigilante attack less than a year after the war’s end the estate passed down the female line to Audrey and thus Percy, who promptly cut off contact with his parents and most of his family. He has, in recent years and as both Hermione and Ron rise higher in the Ministry hierarchy, made several attempts to re-ingratiate himself with his youngest brother, sister-in-law and through them, Harry. He and Audrey have never been to The Burrow though and for that Harry will never be able to forgive them.

“What’s your grand plan, then?” asks Harry.

“Hrmghmm,” says Ron, biting into an enormous bacon sandwich. “Luna’s going to pretend there’s some Umgubular slashkilters on the estate. They’re pretty common in the Highlands - attracted by kilts, apparently. He knows she’s a bit nutty and in the circumstances - Rolf and _The Quibbler_ \- I think he’ll humour her. I’m going to sneak in alongside her, disillusioned. Luna’s going to get Percy to the other side of the estate and make sure he sees her all the time, so she doesn’t fall under suspicion, whilst I get hold of one of the bloody gnomes, gag it and wait until she leaves to slip out with her.”

“Seems to me you’re depending too much on other people - what will you do if Percy doesn’t let Luna in, or says she needs to wait a few days? Or if he only lets her magical signature through the wards?” remarks Harry. “How about tying your signature to hers temporarily?”

“Nah, can’t use Auror techniques - too obvious who it is and if Percy finds out we’ll be up before the Select Committee on Misuse of Auror magic. Got to keep it simple. I know it’s not great, but if you can come up with a better idea, be my guest,” offers Ron.

Harry grabs a handful of crisps, “I might be able to help, but you’re not going to like it.”

\------------------------------------------

“No, that’s six of us with Mr Clutterduck,” says Hermione, later that day.

“Plinky is to be laying an extra place,” says the House Elf, backing away but holding on fiercely to the cutlery.

“No, it’s just us six,” Hermione insists.

The Elf shakes its head, and Hermione sighs, “Kingsley, your Elves are going autonomous.”

“Ah, yes, they do that." He opens the re-directed owl post which has just arrived - late as usual. "Looks like I'm invited to the Malfoy's Ceilidh too. Lucius seems to be going cross-party in his old age.Yes, sorry Hermione, looks like you're getting a guest for dinner."

Hermione holds up her hands in frustration, “Who is coming? How do they even know that?”

“Tweed robes?” says Ron, leaning out of the window. “Who on earth wears tweed in this heat?”

“My father’s spitting blood,” remarks Draco as Punket happily ushers him through the kitchen door.

“He’s desperate for the press to come to see the preparations for the ball, and get his name in the papers supporting St Mungo’s, and now he’s having to turn them out on their ear. Merlin knows what they’ll be saying about us now. I saw Skeeter earlier and she was absolutely livid.”

Harry frowns, he doesn’t mind denying Lucius Malfoy a bit of the limelight, but he’s starting to believe that Draco has changed and he doesn’t want to see his hard-won reputation tarnished.

“Hello Draco,” says Luna, walking mud through the kitchen and dumping a bag of specimens on the table. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until the Ceilidh.”

Draco gets up and kisses her on both cheeks, whilst Harry looks on in bewilderment and Wilfred throws a sour look at the interloper.

“Do you always go to the Malfoy’s ceilidhs?” asks Harry when Draco has gone home after a slightly awkward but friendly enough dinner, and Wilfred has, separately, returned to the Screwt and Horntail.

“Oh yes,” says Luna, carefully feeding shredded lettuce to a baby flobberworm. “I like to show there’s no hard feelings.”

“Oh,” says Harry. “I didn’t even know you knew him - these days.”

“I don’t particularly enjoy them - ever since Rolf died I get all the sleazy old men trying to grope me in the Rozsa. I sit it out now. Draco’s always good for a couple of dances but if we do too many together Narcissa gets the wrong idea. She’s finally given up on that but she’s always pushing him to dance with some women or other.”

“I don’t think you’ll be needing Draco this time,” says Hermione with a significant nod in the direction of the pub. “Is that the lettuce for tomorrow’s salad?” she asks, exasperated, as the worm flounders in a trail of slime across the kitchen table.

“I’m going for a walk,” says Harry pushing his chair back. He’s staying out of this, and in any case he needs a word with Roddy, who is encamped in a field just outside the village.

 

“Harry? Harry Potter - is that you?"

Harry freezes. It’s dark but when he turns he can just make our a familiar face. No chance of bluffing this one.

“Dennis! How lovely to see you. Why are you here?" Ask questions, keep them on the back foot, he thinks.

“I’ve been trying to get into the Malfoy’s place. Lucius Malfoy has the place on lockdown and he’s cancelled our pre-Ceilidh tour. I could have stayed in London until Wednesday."

“Ah,” says Harry, thinking rapidly. He turns and walks with Dennis - away from Roddy’s field.

“Maybe he’s not well?” he suggests.

“Not well in the head if you ask me.” says Dennis. “You’d think he’d be doing anything to get the press on side - something like this and they’ll be raking up the old dirt.”

Harry flinches, he knows Dennis will be first to do anything he can to get revenge on the man he blames for his brother’s death.

“Will you stay until the ceilidh?” he asks.

Dennis nods, “There’s that big political do in Fort William later this week. It’ll be Draco’s first solo political speech and I’m covering that. Be interesting to see how far the rotten apple’s fallen from the tree.”

“He’s not so bad,” says Harry, and instantly regrets that last glass of wine with dinner.

Dennis stops in the road, “I never thought I’d hear you, of all people, defending Draco Malfoy, Harry.”

Harry can feel himself flushing and is thankful it’s not full moon until the weekend. “He did save me, and it looks like he’s trying to change his life around - I just think he should be given credit for that.”

Dennis scans his face, “If you say so, Harry. Anyway what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Romania with Charlie Weasley?”

Thankfully Harry’d predicted this question might come up at the ceilidh and he’s got an answer ready. “I’m getting interested in politics - looks like Fort William will be pretty important, and Ron and ‘Mione are up here so I popped over for a few days.”

Again Dennis is looking at him. “Politics? You? Who are you and what have you done with the real Harry Potter? You’re about as cut out for politics as Snape was to be a cheerleader. Can you imagine?” he chuckles.

Harry laughs, “Thanks for that image, Dennis.”


	15. Chapter 15

“Have you seen this?” says Draco, handing the morning’s _Prophet_ to Hermione.

“How did you get it so early?” she asks, unfolding it.

“Mother has the House Elves pop down to London every morning.”

“Pop down!” she repeats, holding on to the back of a kitchen chair. “Malfoy, it’s about five hundred miles. House Elves shouldn’t be travelling that distance every day - it’ll play hell with their biological rhythms.”

He looks at her bemused, “It’s always been done this way. I’m not sure House Elves have rhythms - they’re not people, Granger, they’re built for this kind of thing.”

Harry steps in before it gets nasty. “Why don’t you read it ‘Mione. You can try recruiting Draco to S.P.E.W _after_ breakfast.”

“Oh yes, I’d forgotten about S.P.E.W,” says Draco, but at a look from Harry he pulls out a chair and helps himself to eggs and bacon, to the satisfaction of Plinky and Plunket, and the obvious surprise of Ron when he arrives in his pyjamas two minutes later. He evidently decides not to let it get in the way of breakfast however.

“What have you got there?” he says, shoving a slice of toast in his mouth before he even sits down. Beside him Harry can feel Draco shudder.

“You’re not going to like this,” announces Hermione frowning at Ron over the paper. “Listen.”

 

 _A Scandal Brewing?_  
Strange things are afoot in the Highlands, reports Free Wizarding Press correspondent, Dennis Creevey.

“I’m up in Oban to report on the Highland Wizarding Games and preparations for the Malfoy’s annual Ceilidh, which this year will be raising money for the St Mungo’s Hospice. A worthy cause you might think, but how much of the benefit of this star-studded gala will be going to the sick and how much towards rebuilding the tarnished reputation of Lucius Malfoy, MWP for Wiltshire?

Malfoy, who has never been shy of publicity, invited the Wizarding press pack to view the preparations in the Malfoy ballroom and gardens yesterday, but the estate was in lockdown. On showing our credentials for our promised audience with the scandal-ridden MWP, a surly lodgekeeper told us that Mr Malfoy was admitting no visitors until the day after the Ceilidh. A number of intrepid colleagues tried to break through the wards but were thrown back and all Owls were returned with ‘No Comment’. Has Lucius Malfoy’s time in the mind-warping environs of Azkaban finally caught up with him or is there something strange afoot?

Your correspondent has heard a strange tale of a crazed man who attacked the estate of Mrs Augusta Longbottom, grandmother of the war hero Neville Longbottom, and, under armed wandpoint stole her prize hen. Longbottom, Professor of Herbology at Hogwarts Academy, who could not be reached for comment, is said to have valiantly fought off the intruder with the Sword of Gryffindor.

Rumour has it that the same mystery man has threatened to kidnap heiress Audrey Weasley, nee Cockburn, wife of Under Secretary Weasley, who is widely tipped to succeed Kingsley Shacklebolt when he retires. The Minister himself is currently on holiday in Aix en Provence, for the sake of his health, according to a Spokes-Wizard in the Department for Regulatory Reform. Could Lucius Malfoy be the armed attacker or is he the next victim? Sources close to the Malfoys suggest that Mrs Malfoy has been worried about her husband’s state of mind for some time, and may be locking him up in the interests of public safety.”

 

Kingsley swears, and they all look at him.

“Well chaps,” he says, “The stakes have just been raised.”

“If my Father ever finds out who’s behind John MacNab he’s going to kill you,” says Malfoy. “And probably me first.”

“Mione,” Harry hears Ron whisper urgently, whilst Kingsley and Draco discuss the article. “He hasn’t been here all night has he?”

“Not that I know of. Is that a problem?” says Hermione, arching an eyebrow.

“No,” says Ron after a pause, “I just don’t see what Harry sees in him.”

“Don’t you?” asks Hermione, with a quick glance at Harry who is now shamelessly eavesdropping.

“Come on Weasley, let me tell you my idea,” says Draco. He meets Harry’s eyes across the table, and the sudden smile leaves Harry feeling strangely breathless.

Hermione stands. “I’ll leave you boys to it - I’ve got to make a morning call to make. Are you sure your father is in London, Draco?”

Draco turns surprised eyes, “That’s - thank you, Grang-.” He stops. “Thank you, Hermione. Mother will be very pleased and I know for a fact my Father is still down South - I had an owl this morning about how the ‘Honour of the Malfoys’ is at stake.He’s planning on a full-guard on Saturday night.”

“I’d better be off too,” says Harry, with a sudden urge to _do_ something. “I’ve got to see Roddy and I think I’ll pay a call on our media friend.”

 -------------------------------

“Oi, Dennis!” calls Harry, crossing his fingers that this is one of his better ideas. He thinks he can rely on Dennis when all is explained, but you never know with the press.

“Got your owl, Harry. Did you see my article about Lucius Malfoy?” asks the reporter, getting up stiffly from his deck chair. “Bloody tents, there’s no space to be had at the Screwt.”

“Yes,” says Harry. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about actually.”

“Have you got a scoop for me? It was mere speculation, but what can you do in silly season?” he shrugs.

“No scoop,” says Harry, casting a quick _Muffliato_. “But I think I can promise you some fun this week - as long as it stays out of the paper.”

 

“Okay,” says Dennis half an hour later, opening the gate for Harry. “I wish I could publish, it would be the scoop of the century.”

At Harry’s warning frown he grins, “Don’t worry - I’m not going to let you down. I do want your first post-Auror interview though.”

“Done,” says Harry, holding out a hand.

Dennis shakes. “Why don’t you come along to the press conference Percy’s called this morning," he offers. “Should be fun."

\-----------------------------

  
After a hurried consultation back at the cottage Harry and Hermione sneak into the North Lodge under glamours, Harry with his overly large camera and Hermione with a notepad and quill at the ready. Hermione has used a nifty spell to duplicate the press passes and they stick close to Dennis.

“How was your call on Mrs Malfoy this morning?” asks Harry as they wait.

“Very promising,” replies Hermione, smoothing out her skirt. “I thought for a moment I wouldn’t get in - Master’s Orders from London apparently - but Narcissa came down to the gate herself with Spangles.”

“Nice Crup," comments Harry.

“Unless you’re the local wildlife," says Hermione. “He’s been chasing the grouse this morning. Narcissa had to _Banish_ the evidence."

“Oh well," shrugs Harry. “One less for Lucius to hunt."

By quarter to twelve the room is packed and stifling and five minutes later Percy appears in full morning robes to read a brief statement.

“Any questions?" he asks at last, looking around the room.

“What kinds of defences will you be putting on the Cockburn Estate, Mr Under Secretary?" asks Dennis, with a wink at Harry.

“Co-burn," corrects Percy with a pained smile. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Dennis, this scoundrel might be reading the papers, for all we know."

“Can we come and watch tomorrow?” asks one enterprising journalist Harry knows well - he’s always going undercover and needing to be bailed out by the Aurors.

“Certainly not,” snaps Percy, and Harry senses, for the first time in this conference, some unease. Percy isn’t entirely sure he’s going to win this round, and a panicked Percy could be dangerous.

Fidgeting beside him Hermione obviously has the same idea, because as they walk home afterwards she stops and turns to Harry with anxious eyes.

“I don’t like this, Harry. When it was the risk of exposure it was all very well but I’m concerned that if you all, Kingsley especially, get caught, Percy could use it to damage Kingsley and make a bid for Minister himself. And that secret source in the Prophet had Percy written all over it,” says Hermione.

“In one fell swoop he managed to damage both the leader of the opposition and the Minister.”

“He’s always wanted to be Minister,” agrees Harry. “But do you think he really would?”

“We’ve seen him stop at nothing when he thinks he’s right, or when he wants more power,” says Hermione. “He just convinces himself he’s doing the right thing, and that’s what’s so worrying.”

“Maybe we should leave Kingsley out of it,” suggests Harry. “But that means we’re missing someone. How about Dennis?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” says Hermione. “Dennis is a journalist to the core. At the moment he thinks he’s just helping us out, but if we let him in on this tomorrow he’ll soon know everyone involved, and Kingsley can’t afford that.

When they put the suggestion to Kingsley after lunch he disagrees vehemently and nothing Hermione or Harry, who has now caught her concern, can say will dissuade him from taking his part. It is only when Draco offers to take his place that he is convinced to sit this one out.

“I don’t quite understand,” he says at last. “Surely it’s in your interests for me to be caught and exposed.

“I don’t have any loyalty to my father’s cause,” says Draco, “Not any more. Anyway, it will be the most fun I’ve had in years.“

“It will be strange to be on the same side,” says Ron, although not unpleasantly. Draco still flinches.

“I don’t think that’s quite fair, Ron,” says Hermione. “If not for Draco and his mother the war could well have had a different outcome.”

Harry smiles at her gratefully.

“What do you want me to do then?” asks Draco, with a surprised nod in her direction.


	16. Chapter 16

Afterwards, when Ron and Hermione have gone to the Burrow and Kingsley’s writing an Owl to his press office, Draco wrinkles his nose at Harry.

“I don’t think you’ve got all the facts straight. I know Audrey Cockburn, she’s one of the only interesting people who spend the summer up here. She’s not a snob at all. Rather like your Granger actually," he pauses. “But with better hair.”

“According to Percy she doesn’t want to mix with people like the Weasleys,” says Harry, feeling that Draco probably isn’t best placed to gauge snobbery, and wondering whether or not Hermione would appreciate the compliment.

“She’s incredibly bright,” says Draco, “And as far as I know she never had anything to do with her family’s support for Voldemort.”

“She certainly didn’t stand against her family when they wanted her to marry Percy,” says Harry pouring himself another cup of tea. It’s cooler today and a fine mist has settled over the hills.

“You’re not allowing for the Pure Blood mindset,” replies Draco. “Audrey must have been, what, well over thirty when she got engaged to Percy. She was a Catherinette.”

“A what?” says Harry.

Luna breaks in, and Harry jumps. He’d forgotten they weren’t alone.

“It’s an unmarried girl over the age of twenty-five. It was probably her last chance to marry and have children.”

Draco nods, “Yes, and also her only chance to escape the control of her family and their beliefs.”

“So what does that make you?” asks Harry, suddenly. “You’re a Pure Blood and well over thirty. Or doesn’t it matter for men?”

“It makes me a confirmed bachelor,” says Draco, smirking, and Harry grips his cup so tightly that the handle cuts into his finger. He casts around for a change of subject, but doesn’t get very far.

“Is that why Molly was so upset when Ginny and I split up?”

“I don’t know,” says Draco, looking at him curiously. “I don’t know anything about that, beyond what was reported in the papers - which I happened to see. It was hard to miss,” he adds quickly.

“We’ll just go and take a walk. Maybe you can hunt out Mr Clutterduck, Luna,” says Kingsley, rustling his papers together and pulling Luna to her feet.

Harry stares after them, perplexed. Then he turns to meet amused grey eyes. “What was that all about?”

Draco shrugs. “Who knows. But as for Ginevra, well, she would have been about twenty-four wouldn’t she? No Pure Blood man would propose after her birthday. There’s a stigma for the Wizard - implies an inability to attract a more eligible woman; money problems perhaps, or impotence.”

“No wonder Molly was annoyed,” says Harry, thinking back to the tears and recriminations. Thankfully he seems to have been forgiven, and it’s definitely improved since Ginny got engaged to Ned Hartlebury from the Canons, who is, he remembers, Muggle-born.

“Why did you split up?” asks Draco, adding - “You don’t have to tell me, but I’ll admit to being curious. It seemed inevitable that you were going to end up in that family one way or another.”

“That’s about it,” says Harry taking a sip of tea. “It felt too inevitable, like I didn’t have a choice. I’ve never had choices - not when my parents were killed, not when I was dumped on the Dursleys and forced to live like their servant, not when Voldemort put a target on my head. I’d had enough. The more people wanted it, the less I felt it was the right thing.”

After what’s just been said he’s not going to lay it all out now. 

“I thought I had no choices, but now I know I did,” says Draco quietly.

“I don’t think anyone knows what they would do in that situation,” says Harry. He wants to lean over and smooth those clenched hands, but he doesn’t. “And when you did have a choice, you made the right one.”

To his relief Draco gives a small smile and his hands uncurl. “If you say so.”

“I do,” says Harry. “And I’m Harry Potter, so you have to believe me.”

He’s rewarded with a sharp kick on the shins. “I can see you need me around to rein in that ego, Potter.”

“Fighting again boys?"

Hermione comes in looking disgruntled and damp and Harry sits back hurriedly.

“Rose and Hugo okay?”

“Having the time of their lives,” says Ron following her through the door. “I’m going to change out of these wet clothes.”

“What happened?” whispers Harry once Ron has gone upstairs.

“Molly.” says Hermione. “It was all ‘Two are no bother my dear, even three would be fine - after all I raised seven’.”

“Ah,” says Harry. He knows that Hermione’s relationship with her mother-in-law is loving, if a little fraught at times. Their backgrounds and aspirations are just too incompatible.  
“And she wouldn’t let me have any proper coffee, or alcohol. God, the embarrassment of your mother -in-law thinking you’ve come from a baby-making holiday. Poor Arthur didn’t know where to look.”

“Sounds like you need wine,” says Harry, getting up to find the cork screw.

“I’d better go,” says Draco, a little reluctantly, thinks Harry. “Long day tomorrow.”

Harry accompanies him to the gate, where they stand for a moment in silent contemplation of the pinkening sky.

“You’ll get cold,” says Draco at last. “I’m Apparating home.”

Harry is cold, but he lingers for a long time after the crack of apparition has echoed through the valley.

\-------------------------------------------

Harry wakes with a palpable sense of longing, trying to catch the last drifting strands of a dream that has left him unbalanced and incomplete. He tries but can recall only fleeting scents, silken fur, and damp skin on a hot day. After a moment he sits up. It’s gone and the pang of loss is unexpected.

Hermione notices - of course she does. “Alright Harry?”

He shakes his head, silently, then shrugs. He really couldn’t say.

“You’ve been so alive since you got here,” she says carefully. “I haven’t seen you with this much enthusiasm in years.”

“Must be the fresh Highland air,” he replies, though he’s not convinced himself. “Takes me back to Hogwarts.”

“Perhaps,” she says, looking at him curiously. “Sure it’s nothing else?”

He busies himself with the teapot. “I’m fine, ‘Mione. Just tired.”

“It’s good to see Luna with Wilfred,” she says, changing the subject. Or perhaps not. “A serendipitous meeting, you might say.”

He meets her eye - this one he can answer. “Yes. If they ever stop arguing.”

“A little conflict never hurt,” she says. “Look at me and Ron. The better the fight, the better the-”

“Do I want to know why you’re discussing our sex life?” asks Ron, from the doorway.

Harry sighs and stands up. He thinks his breakfast might taste better outside.

 

He’s still there, gazing at the distant peaks when a familiar tread interrupts his thoughts. He looks round, surprised to see Draco and Wilfred together, and by appearances, on friendly terms.

“Ready, Harry?”

He nods, but for the first time a sunny morning spent on a hillside with Draco does not appeal.


	17. Chapter 17

“You sure?” they ask, again, as their motley deputation approaches the gate house.

“I’m just a public official, meticulously carrying out my duties,” says Wilfred with a smile and a wink that transform his usually serious face.

The House Elf shows them in to the entrance hall, an imposing stone built room with high ceilings and a multitude of animals, Muggle and Magical, on the wall. Percy strides in like he owns the place and casts a startled glance at his visitors.

“Malfoy,” says Percy. “To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”

“I’m from the St Mungo’s Infectious Maladies team,” says Wilfred, holding out his ID badge. “I’m investigating a potential case of Cerebrumus Spattergroit. Mr Malfoy told me that you visited Mr Ronald Weasley and may have been exposed.”

“What about Malfoy?" demands Percy, stepping back. “He was there too. Why's he out and about spreading infection?"

“Mr Malfoy never entered the house," says Wilfred, smoothly. “His test results came back clear. You, however, entered the house and under the Infectious Magical Diseases Act of 1876 you must be isolated immediately and undergo compulsory testing.”

“I could be infected?" says Percy, aghast.

Nice, thinks Harry. Concern only for himself and no thought of his brother.

“That’s what we’re here to find out," says Wilfred, soothingly.

“But-" starts Percy, looking torn. “Can it wait? Does it have to be today?"

Harry thinks it’s time to step forward.  “Hello, Percy. Sorry to intrude on your holiday. Mr Clutterduck said he’d have to isolate you until the results come back, and we heard this is the day of the challenge. Hermione thought we could help guard your property whilst you’re out of action.”

“I thought I could help too,” offers Draco. “You’ve probably heard that our place is under challenge as well. We can’t have some scurrilous outsider attacking old Wizarding property. We don’t always see eye to eye, Weasley, but you know that I’m an old friend of Audrey’s.”

Percy looks to Harry in obvious confusion and Harry does his best to smile reassuringly, “We’ve all put our differences aside now, Percy. Once this sort of lawless behaviour starts, who knows where it will end. We have to stop John MacNab for once and for all.”

“As fellow landowners we have a moral duty to help you,” says Draco, and Harry wonders if they’re laying it on a bit thick but it seems Draco knows his mark.

Percy nods at last, “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to have you here, Harry. It’s been a long time. If you catch anyone I want you to call the Aurors immediately, and alert my press office - they have the statements prepared.”

Harry is grateful for the cool hand that briefly touches his wrist, and he bites down a cutting retort. “Leave it all to us.”

Once Percy’s been isolated in the castle and Wilfred has started the first of a series of extensive tests - ‘we’ll be very thorough, Mr Under Secretary, we can’t have someone as important as you getting ill’ - they split up.

“I’ll get the gate,” says Harry. “You know your way around, Draco. See if you can find the girls and Audrey.”

Once he has dismantled some of the wards on the gate house, Luna and Ron appear, _Disillusioned_ , in case of spies from the castle, and cross the boundary.

“Wilfred’s given us two hours - Draco and I will go and cause a rumpus in other parts of the estate. You know their habitat best, Luna, so we’ll leave it to you and Ron.”

When he returns to the main door, wards re-established with some extra protective embellishments should Percy be moved to check their work, he’s relieved to see Draco lounging against the portico.

“The girls are with their House Elf in the tower, but Audrey’s nowhere to be seen,” he reports.

Harry pulls a face, “I hope the others don’t stumble over her”

“I’ll speak to her, if there’s a problem, but honestly Harry, I think you lot have got it all wrong about Audrey.” Draco pulls out his wand, “Let’s get out to the boundaries and see what we can do.”  
\----------------------------------------------

Ron reaches to where, if he squints a bit, he can see Luna’s hand. “Come on, we’ve only got a couple of hours. Where do these bloody Dwarfs like to live?”

“Don’t worry,” says Luna, pulling out two long, sparkly, purple sticks. “We can use these dowsing rods. We’ll soon find them.”

Ron takes a dubious look at the sticks, “Looks like one of Rosie’s toy wands, if you ask me.”

Luna smiles at him expectantly, and so, heaving a sigh, he takes one.

“Alright, lead on Doctor Livingston.”

 

An hour later and increasingly hot and sweaty they stop by a small burn to cool down. 

“I haven’t seen any of Harry’s diversions,” comments Luna, cupping water over her damp face. “I think we’d better split up - there’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“Probably too distracted talking to Malfoy, they never seem to stop,” says Ron. “I really don’t know what he sees in him.”

“I can,” says Luna, serenely. “Draco’s a very lonely man, Ron. You should make an effort - you have more in common than you think.”

“Like what?” demands Ron, he knows the close heat is making him irritable. “ _I_ can’t think of anything. He made his bed and he can lie in it, as far as I’m concerned.”

“You both like Harry,” offers Luna.

Ron grunts, “Well, I will say Malfoy’s not all bad these days - but I might change my mind if we don’t find one of these Dwarfs soon,” he adds.

\-----------------------------------------

Up on the hill overlooking the glen Harry surveys the grounds.

“I’ve seen a few Elves, but they’re all down at the main gate. Don’t Wizards have stalkers and gillies, and that sort of thing, we should be looking out for?”

“The Elves are probably trying to repel Dennis’ journalist friends,” says Draco. “Stalkers? No - some estates used to, when it was legal for anyone to _Obliviate_ Muggles, but now we have to use House Elves. It’s a shame really, ‘cause the Elves aren’t bred for this kind of thing - legs are too short for one thing. I believe Muggle gamekeepers were considered superior. Why?”

“Roddy,” says Harry. “I was trying to think of a job he could do. He needs training of course, he’s far too young to be out on the roads, whatever he might choose to do when he’s older.”

Draco hums. “It’s possible, I suppose. But didn’t you tell me he wants to be a Muggle Auror?”

“Police? Yes,” agrees Harry, running frustrated fingers through his hair. “But he’d need to start Muggle school from scratch, and have extra training on culture and so on before he could even think about that. Hermione’s already started campaigning but by the time they’ve got everything in place it might be too late to help Roddy.”

He stills, “Found them - they’re in the kitchen garden.”

“Can I take a look?” asks Draco.

Harry hands him the Omnioculars, and as their hands brush he startles and pulls back.

“Sorry,” says Draco, and shuffles a little further along the ridge.

Harry clenches his hands. What is wrong with him ?

“What do you make of Clutterduck?” asks Draco after an awkward pause.

“Nice enough, not sure if he cope with Luna’s particular brand of lunacy,” says Harry, hating himself. It’s not been awkward before - quite the opposite in fact - and it’s only now that he fully realises how strange that is. He wonders why no one else seems to have noticed.

“I don’t think anyone will be good enough for Luna - except Rolf,” says Draco.

Harry laughs, a little harshly. “What do you do when you can’t have the one person who - fits. You have no one, or you - settle.”

He can feel Draco looking at him curiously but he won’t meet his eye, he won’t.

“Perhaps she needs something different now - she’s older, she’s been through a lot. We all have.”

“Maybe,” says Harry.

“Do you actually believe that? That people have just one person who balances them, who matches them?”

Harry shields his eyes and peers at the castle, “I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more.”

“Harry -,” says Draco quietly, and suddenly he is closer, much closer.

“Harry -, I might be reading this wrong, but -”

“Yes,” says Harry, roughly. “You are.” He pushes himself to his feet. “I’m not sure I can -”

“Is there - - anything I can do?”

Harry pauses. He knows he’s being an arse - but. No, Draco’s not to blame and if it’s any one’s fault it’s his own, for coming up with this half-witted plan. Or maybe Hermione’s, he thinks darkly.

“Earth to Harry?” says Draco at last, waving an hand in front of his face.

“How do you _do_ that,” he snaps. At Draco’s blank look, he sighs. “Look. You’re a Pure Blood, right?”

“And?” says Draco, foot starting to tap.

“Nothing,” says Harry. “You’re a Pure Blood, but you know all this Muggle stuff, like films and bloody Green Day. How do you just manage to, I dunno, _flit_ between the two worlds like that?”

Draco shrugs, but he looks confused. “What about Grang - Hermione? She’s Muggleborn and she fits into the Magical world.”

“Oh, so you think that do you? You’ve changed your tune.” Harry wishes he could stop but he can’t - something is driving him on. Life was so simple before they started this stupid challenge.

Draco flushes, makes to turn away, and then, to Harry’s surprise, stops, turns, looks at him firmly.

“I don’t know what’s got in to you today Harry, but one of us has to act like an adult here. So _what the fuck_ is wrong?

Harry takes a deep breath, just like he was taught in class. Three, two, one, out... He scrubs his hands through his hair, sighs.

“Sorry, look, I’m sorry. I don’t know. I just - _why can everyone else do it_?” He throws himself to the heather and Draco approaches with the careful stealth of a vet approaching an injured Manticore.

“Why can everyone else do _what_?”

“Fit into Wizarding and Muggle worlds,” he replies at last. He can’t believe he’s admitting this to Draco Malfoy, of all people.

“You’re a Half-blood and you grew up in the Muggle world, until Hogwarts," says Draco, warily.

“Are you the only fucking person on the planet who hasn’t read ‘ _Harry - A life_ ’, ‘ _Harry’s Hideous History_ ’, ‘ _We Never Knew_ ’ et cetera et cetera?" he demands. “I wasn’t raised by Muggles, I was half-dragged up, half-abandoned by Muggles until I got to Hogwarts, and then everyone knew more about me and my family than I even knew. And no one ever took the time to piece it all together for me or give me the bits I was missing.”

“I may have read - some -of them," admits Draco. “Knowing the press though I didn’t believe everything I read, and you’ve never made a statement, so-"

“I had no idea you were following my life so closely," says Harry, with a pathetic attempt at humour.

“Don’t flatter yourself," says Draco. "I used most of them as kindling. Anyway, you’ve seen me in a Muggle pub. I don’t feel at ease, and it took me a long time to feel comfortable with Muggle-borns. No one’s got it sorted, Harry. Everyone’s just paddling madly away underneath - and if they tell you otherwise, they’re lying.”

“It’s not just being uncomfortable,” he says, and it’s somehow important to make Draco understand. “I don’t feel like I belong in either world. I never watched TV or saw the films, or read the books that other Muggle-born children had read to them at bedtime. And my dad’s side was Pure Blood, but I don’t understand that either - the rules, the stuff on Wizarding Wireless that you all watched as kids, that Catherinette thing you and Luna were on about - everything, basically.”

“Neither fish nor fowl,” says Draco thoughtfully.

“I _do_ know that one,” says Harry, “Nor good red herring. You know, I really, just for once in my life, want to be normal.”

“Tough,” says Draco, and Harry looks up at the unexpected harshness in his tone. “You’re not normal, Harry, and you’re never going to be normal, so you might as well give up on that one. Don’t you see? I’m only going to say this once: You’re extraordinary. Now, bloody well get down on your hands and knees and follow me - Audrey Weasley’s just over that rise and she’s going to see us any second.”

\----------------------------------------

  
“Got you, you evasive little bugger."

Ron is wrestling with the Dwarf, his hand stuffed between its teeth to stop it giggling when a scarf is thrust into his face.

“Would you like to borrow my scarf, Ronald?” comes a soft voice with just a trace of the singsong Highland lilt.

“Thanks,” says Ron, reaching out before he stops. Looks.

“Audrey."

Amused blue eyes meet his. “John MacNab I presume?”

Ron nods, no point landing the others in it.

“Well don’t let me stop you,” says Audrey standing back and Ron regards her curiously.

“You’re taking this rather well, if you don’t mind me saying?"

Audrey shrugs delicately, “The fact that your very first visit to us is only to kidnap one of our Dwarfs you mean? I thought John MacNab sounded rather fun. Probably the most exciting thing to happen up here since the-”

Ron breaks in, “The Great Haggis Massacre of 1743?”

She nods, eyes dancing, and relieved, Ron smiles back.

“I - I, thought you didn’t want us anywhere near you?”

Audrey looks bewildered now, “What on earth do you mean?”

“Well,” says Ron with an ominous feeling that he may be putting his foot in it. “Percy says you don’t want to associate with us, we’re too poor and uncouth.” He flushes - he knows it’s silly but his family’s relative poverty has always been a sore point.

Audrey perches on a tussock. “Explain,” she demands. “You’ve misunderstood, or something - Percy told me that your family doesn’t want to sully their good name by associating with a family of Death Eaters.”

“What?” splutters Ron. “No, he said - Oh the complete and utter bastard.”

For the first time he looks at Audrey with sympathy and really wishes Hermione were here - he has an unpleasant feeling that this might end in feminine weeping, and he’s never been any good with that.

“Audrey, I’m sorry but it sounds like Percy’s being telling us all lies.”

His sister-in-law watches him mutely, and he knows he has to go on.

“We wanted to get to know you, but Percy, well, - he said you didn’t want anything to do with us. Sounds like he was ashamed of his own family. Poor Mum.”

Audrey sighs, and Ron is struck by how her voice, her movements, even her sighs are so restrained and emotionless.

“I’ve wanted so much to be part of your family. I loved your mother when I met her, and you all seem to have such fun together. I thought I’d be marrying into that and instead -” she gestures back towards the house. “I couldn’t approach your family, not when my family were supporting Voldemort and you lost your brother. You would be justified if you didn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

“I’m going to kill Percy,” he says. “Mum’s heartbroken that she only ever sees the girls in the paper.”

He sighs. Someone, probably him, is going to have to break this to his parents, and he’s not sure the acquisition of two granddaughters and Audrey will make up for the pain and disappointment.

“So, Malfoy was right, after all.”

“Draco?” says Audrey, smiling a little, although even that is subdued, to Ron’s eyes. “Of course, he knows all about it - we’re very close.”

“Oh,” says Ron, flushing. “I didn’t realise.”

Audrey just looks at him. “Not like that Ronald, is it likely?”

“Sorry. I wouldn’t blame you, not with my idiot of a brother.”

But at that Audrey shakes her head. “I can’t criticise my husband. He’s done a lot to restore our family name, and he’s a good father.”

Ron notices that there’s no mention of his worth as a husband. How very sad.

As they carry the squirming Dwarf towards the gatehouse, Audrey looks up, “Where _is_ my husband anyway?”

“Oh, we’ve led him to believe he’s been exposed to a case of Spattergroit. He’s in bed, and as far as he knows, so am I, being nursed by my devoted wife - who is also my alibi.”

Audrey frowns, “What about my girls?”

Ron hastens to reassure her, “No, it’s a set up. He’s fine really. We’ll let him know tomorrow.”

“Give it a few days,” says Audrey with the first show of spark of animation that he’s seen. “A little worry will do him good.”

“If it all gets too much, why don’t you come over to ours,” offers Ron and when she looks confused, explains, “Percy’s a nightmare when he’s ill and Hermione and I have a little holiday cottage here. It’s only a couple of miles away. We usually bring the kids up but they’re with Mum this time.”

“And Percy knows?” she asks, “Percy knows that our girls have been playing just a few miles from their cousins and he hasn’t said anything?”

He shrugs and wonders if this marriage will last. Unfortunately for Audrey, who, for all her Pure Blood restraint, seems too sporting to be married to a Percy Weasley, he suspects it will.

\----------------------------------------------

 

“And that’s why you’re so worried about Roddy,” says Draco, suddenly, when they’re once again out of sight in the trees.

At Harry’s blank look he huffs impatiently, “Roddy’s like you, in reverse, sort of - brought up in the Wizarding world, but thrown unprepared into an unfriendly Muggle world."

Yes, thinks Harry. How does Draco do that? How does he know this about Harry, when Harry hasn’t even made the connection himself. Sometimes he wonders if the Dursleys broke him.

“It’s just not right that he’s just been thrown out by his family, and left to get by. What if he was ill, or hurt - he can’t go to a Muggle hospital, he can’t go to St Mungo’s. He’s got no passport, no ID number -”

“Hermione will sort the legal aspect out. I’ve great confidence in her political skills - especially when there’s someone to be saved. And you’re just as bad, Potter.”

“I just think something needs to be done now - not in ten years when the MWPs have finally got their decrepit arses in gear and agreed on something.”

“Thanks,” says Draco.

“Not your arse,” says Harry, flicking a piece of bark and getting a two-fingered response. For a moment it’s all fine. “If I get into Parliament, that will help of course and I can campaign with Hermione.”

“Yes,” says Draco. “But that’s all the political side, and I agree with you - it’s not enough.”

“So what do we do?” asks Harry, leaning back against a tree stump.

Draco crosses his arms. “You’ve always struck me as a doer, not a thinker.”

“Thanks,” says Harry, dryly.

Draco waves a hand, “It’s not a bad thing Harry, you just need to play to your strengths. Hermione’s a thinker and, to some extent, a politician. Weasley’s a natural strategist and he’ll make a great Head Auror. But I’ve heard you say it yourself - you quit the Aurors because you wanted to be out in the field, not dealing with interdepartmental meetings, and budgets, and politicking, and all that stuff you hate. Why on _earth_ you think you can be a politician beats me - it’s nothing _but_ that sort of crap.”

“You think I’d be a rubbish politician,” summarises Harry, a little blankly. It’s probably true but it seems Draco’s the only who’s going to tell him, although Hermione has asked more than once if he’s ‘sure it’s the right thing, Harry?’.

“You’d be a lot better than many politicians. But the people who want to make a difference make useless politicians - too idealistic - and those who are just in it for the power tend to be the ones who get high enough to make a difference. It’d kill someone like you. I just think your energy and skills could be better applied in a different sphere.”

“Like what?” asks Harry.

Draco shrugs, “I’m not sure, but as far as I can see you’ve got a lot of energy, a lot of empathy, you’re very - caring. I just think something more personal would suit you.”

“I thought -”

Draco turns back to him, and his eyes are warm with interest. “You’ve got an idea, haven’t you?”

Harry shrugs, it’s been at the back if his mind but he’s never fully taken it out and looked at it. “It’s probably stupid, but I wondered if _I_ could help the Squib children - I know both worlds, and it’s not like I’m ever likely to have kids of my own, and I do understand a bit of what they’re going through. I could use my influence, and my connections -.”

“You can do it,” says Draco. “I’ve seen you with Teddy, you’re brilliant, and he adores you. Not because you’re Harry Potter, not because you’re his Godfather, but because you just know how to talk to him, how to be with him. It’s a talent.”

“Maybe,” says Harry.

“I’ve heard you and Hermione all week - you’ve got the strength of your convictions, you’ve got her behind you. You’re an orphan, Teddy’s an orphan, and the Squib children might as well be. They couldn’t have a better champion, but I think you’re better getting stuck in and helping them directly than going through political channels - Hermione can manage that side.”

“What’s that?” says Harry, pulling out his Omnioculars, which have been lying, forgotten, on his rucksack.

“Looks like we’ve missed all the important stuff. Come on, there’d better be a cold beer at the end of all this.”

\-----------------------------------

“Here you are, mission accomplished,” says Ron, handing over the wriggling Dwarf, which instantly quietens when Wilfred tucks it under his arm.

“I’ll send up the signal for the boys, shall I?” asks Luna, who has taken the appearance of Ron’s estranged sister-in-law with typical equanimity.

“I didn’t hear any of their diversions,” says Wilfred. “Maybe the castle walls were too thick.”

“You’re not going to tell Percy, then?” asks Ron.

“Oh no,” says Audrey, walking alongside. “He’s got no sense of humour at all. He’s been threatening terrible consequences for John MacNab and I doubt you being his brother would stop him.”

“Thanks,” says Ron. “And I’ll make sure Hermione comes over this week. Malfoy seemed to think that you two would get on.”

Audrey nods, “I would be delighted, and if you could smooth things over with your mother as well, so that I can take the girls to The Burrow without being kicked out -”

“She won’t do that,” says Ron with conviction. “Of course. But will Percy let you?”

“Oh yes,” replies Audrey, “He most certainly will. I do retain control of the estate, whatever he lets everyone believe.”

“Good,” says Ron, embarrassed, as ever by money talk.

“Talking of Draco,” says Audrey, lifting the wards. “How did he come to be involved in all this? I thought you were deadly enemies at school.”

“Ah,” says Ron, opening the gate. “He and Harry seem to have become, well, friends recently.”

“Friends?” says Audrey, dubiously and Ron shrugs.

“I know. Mad isn’t it, but I have to say, he’s improved with keeping. And Harry really seems to like him, so -” he shrugs and holds out his hand. “Bye Audrey.”

“Not goodbye,” she says firmly. “Only Au Revoir.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

“What were you idiots doing all morning?” demands Ron, and Harry flushes.

“I thought you were going to set off some fireworks, make it look like you were chasing John MacNab. I didn’t hear anything though,” says Wilfred, helpfully.

“Perhaps there were fireworks, we just didn’t hear them,” suggests Luna. Ron’s looking at her in disbelief but Wilfred nods.

“Where’s Draco?” asks Hermione, shutting her book and standing up. “I’d have thought he’d want to come and celebrate?”

“Gone home,” says Harry, laconically. He doesn’t miss her speculative look. Bugger.

“Give me that Dwarf,” says Hermione. “For a group of people who succeeded, I have to say that you don’t look very happy. What happened?”

\---------------------------------

“I thought you said Percy was in isolation,” says Hermione, looking out of the snug window.

“Only until the testing finished. He came back clear, naturally, so I had to let him go. Have to abide by the regulations.”

“Somebody hide that Dwarf,” says Hermione. “Wilfred, I’m sorry, but I think you’d better leave by the back door. Warn Kingsley on your way.”

“We’ll take the Dwarf home too,” says Wilfred, as Luna closes the door softly behind them.

When the knock comes they all arrange themselves into attitudes of relaxation. Plunket announces the visitors with his usual bad grace.

“We’ve come to apologise,” announces Audrey, with a significant shake of her head. Percy stands awkwardly behind her in the hall.

“From what I’ve heard _you_ don’t need to,” says Hermione pointedly, but with a smile for her sister-in-law.

“Could we go outside, perhaps? Leave the men to it?” suggests Audrey.

Hermione nods reluctantly. Harry wants to leave too but he knows someone needs to stay and make sure things don’t get out of hand. Ron’s cold fury is actually frightening him. He knows that family is the most important thing in the world for Molly and Arthur, and whatever Percy has done this time, Molly will forgive in the end, especially if it means seeing the grand-daughters she has longed for. It’s his job to make sure that, in his rage, Ron doesn’t say something that cuts the ties for ever.

“Twice,” says Ron.

Percy nods miserably and he reminds Harry of a bird that has lost its shiny plumage.

“I’m sorry -”

“You shouldn’t need two chances Percy. You were lucky to get one. When are you going to wake up?”

“I was embarrassed, I thought I needed to, to -” Percy admits, stiffly.

“Merlin, Percy. Even the Malfoys chose family over power in the end.”

Harry winces, but holds his tongue as Ron continues.

“Don’t you know what it did to mum? It was bad enough the first time, how do you think she felt this time, especially after Fred-”

“It was just a little lie,” says Percy. “And then I couldn’t go back. I’d heard things about our family, and how Audrey only married me to improve the Cockburn’s standing - how I’d never have been good enough for her in the past.”

“Did you even ask Audrey what she thought?” says Ron, and Percy shakes his head.

“Ask her,” insists Ron. “Talk to her. You don’t just stand to lose our family, but your wife too, and kids, possibly.”

Percy walks to the window and looks over the drive. Harry does his best to blend into the wallpaper.

“I do have feelings for her, you know.” His voice is muffled but his ears are a telltale crimson.

Ron sighs, and Harry relaxes a little. “I know it was more a business arrangement than a love match, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t develop into something more. You owe it to Audrey and the girls to try.”

“If I ever had a chance, I think I just ruined it.”

“You’re going to have to make a lot of apologies - to Audrey and to mum and dad - and then work to rebuild trust. You can’t do this with political spin, Percy. The only way you’re going to win them back is honesty, and loyalty.”

Harry wonders if he should go and look for Hermione, but doesn’t want to interrupt the détente. He was not expecting this rather embarrassing session of relationship counselling, but he has to admit that Ron’s come a long way, no doubt partly thanks to Hermione’s tutelage. Still, if one Weasley can mature, even Percy has a chance, he thinks.

Percy is silent and the Grandfather clock ticks on.

At last he turns, and the vulnerability on his face is almost shocking. “Will you help me, please, Ron?”

Harry holds his breath whilst Ron gives his brother a long searching glance.

“All right.”

The women start to their feet as Harry leads the way into the garden. Hermione’s looking at him anxiously, and he attempts to reassure her.

“Everything okay?”

Percy steps forward with a humility Harry has only seen on him once before. “Hermione. I’m sorry. I was an idiot. Again.”

Audrey’s head is down, but Harry can see her shoulders relax fractionally.

“Don’t make it a habit, Percy.You won't get a third chance.”

Percy looks at Hermione, nods. “Thank you. I won’t. I -I shouldn't have needed two. I nearly lost Audrey as well this time and-” He turns to his wife. “I couldn’t bear it if that happened.”

Audrey looks up, mute with surprise, and, if Harry’s not mistaken, pleasure.

  
When Ron’s gone to escort Percy and Audrey home, Hermione watches them down the path.

“Well, that was awful. Poor Audrey.”

Harry grimaces. “At least Percy’s going to tell the Weasleys himself - I know Ron wasn’t looking forward to it.”

“Molly will be devastated,” says Hermione. “But there’s nothing we can do now." She beckons. “Come on Harry, there’s no escape. What happened today with Draco?”

Harry sighs as he sinks onto the pouffe at her feet. No point avoiding her, she always gets him in the end, and to be honest, he could do with the help. Hermione’s as understanding as ever, and lets him get to the end of his halting, embarrassed and rambling confession.

“I’m impressed,” she says at last. “I think he actually understands you. I wasn’t sure if it was just -,” she flushes. “You know - lust.”

“Not much chance of that,” says Harry morosely. “He’s celibate.”

Hermione frowns, “Who on earth told you that? It’s certainly not what I’ve heard.”

“He said he was a confirmed bachelor.”

“Oh, Harry” says Hermione, sighing. “Confirmed bachelor has always been code for gay. Didn’t you know that?”

“No,” says Harry, feeling incredibly silly, and also aggrieved - it’s just one more thing. “But,” he remembers suddenly, “Teddy said that Narcissa and Andromeda were talking about trying to find him a wife at the Ceilidh.”

“Sometimes Pure Blood men marry for an heir,” says Hermione and her eyes are far too understanding. Harry looks away. “Or maybe they don’t know he’s gay, yet” she adds more hopefully.

Harry looks silently into the cold hearth.

“I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I?”

“Um,” she says. “Sorry, Harry - just a bit.”

“Why does he have to be so bloody confusing?” he says, and he knows he’s starting to rant. “I thought the other night that something might happen, but after what he said I thought I was just misreading him. And then yesterday - God, he must think I was rejecting him. It’s like he says one thing but means something else.”

“With Draco it’s all in the subtext," she says, like that explains everything. “Look - think about how he grew up - to understand Draco you have to look at what he’s not saying, his actions, and what’s going on underneath."

“Is that why sometimes I feel like there’s a whole other conversation going on?" he asks.

“Exactly," she says, approvingly. “Draco’s like a swan, it’s all about appearances on top, and a bit of hissing and biting - but you need to look underneath to see what direction he’s paddling in. You just need the key.” She taps her fingers on the arm of the chair before turning to the very dog-eared paperback on the side-table. Harry fights to restrain a smile - when in doubt turn to a book. Typical Hermione Granger.

“North and South. Read that; tell me what Margaret is saying.”

Harry looks, reads, shrugs, “She’s offering this Thornton man some money to run his business.”

Hermione sighs and Harry knows he’s failed. “If I tell you that she previously rejected this man, and has changed her mind, but Thornton thinks she's going to marry Lennox - how do you read it then?”

He reads again. “I don’t know ‘Mione, she’s talking about money and investments, and then Thornton’s suddenly on his knees to her.”

“Sit,” she commands, and starts to read aloud. She’s the first and only person who has ever read to him aloud - that he remembers anyway - and Harry has always loved her reading voice - whether it’s novels, reports, or homework timetables. He sinks to the hearth.

“Listen,” she says. “Thornton is saying that Lennox has everything a man could want - which means Margaret - and that he himself is looking back with bitterness at the wasted opportunity he had with Margaret. Don’t you see, Harry? You strip out all the - the - tags and look at the underlying sentiment.”

He hugs his knees, “I kind of see it now you’ve explained.”

“Then here,” she says pointing and reading softly, reverently, until Harry is lost in the music of her voice.

“I get it,” he says at last. “She’s telling him he can get back what he’s lost - her -”

“And that if he accepts her proposal he will gain a great deal,” finishes Hermione, in the pleased tone of a teacher.

“And Draco - this is what he does,” he says, in growing excitement. “I just have to look underneath.”

“Well done Harry,” she says, shutting her book. “You’ve got the key - you can now translate Draco Malfoy.”


	19. Chapter 19

“Hello Harry,” says Andromeda. “We wondered when we’d be seeing you here. I’m glad you’ve come over - Teddy’s desperate for someone to play with but Draco’s struggling with his speech - why the silly boy left it until today I don’t know - and I need to help Narcissa with the flower arrangements. So-,” she ends delicately.

Harry suppresses a groan. “No problem. Lead me to Ted, I’ll keep him occupied for you.”

“He’s like a puppy that’s been tied up too long,” warns Andromeda. “Don’t let him out of your sight for a moment or he’ll be in the loch.”

Gloomily, Harry follows her down to the summer house where they find Teddy playing a riotous game of Gobstones at the feet of his disgruntled looking cousin.

“Thank Merlin, Aunt. _Please_ can you take Teddy somewhere and run him around the meadow or something. It’s not that I don’t want to play, but I have far too much to -”

“Uncle Harry!” squeals Teddy, jumping up and squishing a grimy face into Harry’s jumper.

“Hey Mate,” he says, “Nice hair." He ruffles black and blond streaked hair before looking up - just as Draco looks away.

“I’ve brought reinforcements,” says Andromeda brightly. “Now, play nicely boys and make sure you come in when the gong goes.”

“Anyone would think we were _all_ kids,” grumbles Draco. “Look Teddy, here’s Uncle Harry. I’m sure he won’t mind playing ‘dragon tamer’ with you. Good luck, Potter.”

Harry sighs. He knows as well as Draco undoubtedly does that Teddy’s favourite game invariably ends with someone covered in dragon snot.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

“Can I help you with your speech?” he asks cautiously when Teddy has sunk to the rug in an attitude of exhaustion.

“I hardly think you are qualified to help,” replies Draco, sniffing.

Harry exhales slowly. Draco’s prickly again, and in the circumstances he’s not surprised. He backs off. With a wide-eyed Teddy watching them this is neither the time nor the place to have the talk they so desperately need.

Draco sighs, rubs raw looking eyes. “Sorry - It’s just, I’m down to do this speech, with half the Wizarding press present, and I have literally no idea what to say.”

“You never seemed to have a problem with public speaking at school,” says Harry, and for a moment it looks like Draco’s going to flip him the finger.

“I can only speak when I actually believe in what I’m talking about,” says Draco, ruefully, and then sticks his tongue out at Harry so briefly that even Ted can’t have seen.

“Well why don’t you?” says Harry.

“Why I don’t I what?”

Harry shrugs - “Just talk about what you believe in.”

Draco regards him in silence for a moment, before hope dawns across his face, followed quickly by uncertainty. “You don’t think that’s a dangerous thing to ask of a man like me?”

Harry gives him Hermione’s patented look.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Draco. You’ve changed. I know you have, and there’s absolutely no reason why you have to be in your father’s party. You’re a thirty-something, intelligent, compassionate man.”

“You’re suggesting I declare as an independent,” says Draco. “Have you any idea what that would mean?” He shakes his head. “You don’t have a clue, do you. Only a madman would attempt it.”

“No,” says Harry, holding eye contact. “Only a very principled and very courageous man. And he’d succeed.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking, Harry.”

“Times have changed - you’ve got a chance to stand up for what you - that’s you, not your Father, not your Haggis-bothering ancestor - believe in.”

“Children present,” warns Draco, glancing at the rug. When he looks back his eyes are unguarded. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s a risk, but I think you’ll succeed.”

“In that case I’ll go and work on this in my study. I won’t be able to achieve anything worthwhile out here.”

Harry flings himself on the rug. He can do this stuff too. ‘Mione will be proud.

“Harry?” comes a small voice. “You’re getting dragon snot on my top.”


	20. Chapter 20

Andromeda comes to the hall with her finger to her lips. “He’s just gone off to bed,” she says, and for a moment Harry thinks she means Draco. “But if you creep up I’m sure Draco won’t mind you listening in. Just don’t excite Ted, please. I don’t know what you did this morning but you certainly tired him out. You look exhausted yourself, Harry. I hope you didn’t over do it in Romania” she adds, looking at him carefully.

Harry shrugs off her concern and makes for the stairs. He’s grateful for her interest but he’s never felt entirely comfortable with anyone but Molly Weasley attempting to mother him.

At the landing he pauses, hearing the quiet murmur of voices behind a half-closed door, and wonders whether he should be intruding here. After a moment of reflection, his hand hovering by the carved wood of the door, he stops and carefully peers around and into Ted’s bedroom.

What he sees surprises him, although perhaps, by now, it shouldn’t. In contrast to the rest of the somewhat gloomy Highland house, here, in Ted’s little room, there are no stags heads, no blood-curdling paintings - just a fresh, white painted room with a small bed, posters on the walls, and lots and lots of toys. And Draco.

Teddy’s tucked up in bed, looking much younger than he really is. Draco’s sitting cross-legged on the pillow next to him, the book spread between them, as softly and with actions, Draco tells the story.

When Draco says ‘right up to the moon and back’, Harry’s heart clenches painfully, and Teddy murmurs something Harry can’t hear before burying his head in his cousin’s lap, Draco bends down and pulls Ted against him, kissing his forehead.

“Stay, please Draco,” comes a tired voice, a little wobbly and high.

“Okay," says Draco smoothing back his hair - brown for once - and with a lurch Harry realises it’s the exact shade of Remus’ hair. He must have made a sound for Draco starts and their eyes meet in the gloom.

Harry nods, he’ll wait outside.

 

“Isn’t that book a big young for him,” he whispers, when Draco has muttered a  _Nox_ and softly pulled the door to.

“He says it makes him feel closer to his Mum and Dad,” murmurs Draco, back to the door. “We used to read it to him when he was little, and tell him that was how much his parents loved him.” He sighs, glances at Harry. “It always made me cry. Anyway, no one’s too old for that book - or to be told how much someone loves them,” he adds.

Following him down the stairs Harry wonders how he never knew about all -- this. Then he grimaces, it doesn’t take a genius to work out. After the trials he avoided Draco at first, and when he finally stopped doing that and started wondering how his classmate was getting on, he discovered that Draco wasn’t around to avoid. Now, of course, he knows why. After a few pointed comments from Hermione and Andromeda in the early months he asked them, quietly and calmly, to give up, and since then he’s heard nothing about Draco beyond what he reads in the papers.

Even Teddy must have been complicit, he realises, and he wonders if his silence on the topic has been taken to mean that he agrees with Ron’s caustic comments every time the Malfoy name comes up. The very same Malfoys who he now knows accepted Teddy as one of their own, despite his heritage, despite their history, and went beyond that to give Teddy an extended family and a whole lot of extra love. Poor Teddy, who must have felt torn between his loyalty to his family and his loyalty to his godfather.

He realises they’ve reached the bottom of the stairs and Draco is standing, not a foot apart, watching him with ill-disguised concern.

“Are you alright?” he asks, after a loaded moment broken only by Andromeda’s arrival in the hall.

Harry nods, schools his face into some semblance of a smile. “Tired.”

“That’s what I said,” remarks Andromeda, and Harry steps back. “He needs a proper holiday - not all this gallivanting around Romania and Scotland. Too much long-distance _Apparition_ is bad for you, young man, it plays hell with your -.”

“Biorhythms,” finishes Draco, before exchanging an amused smile at Harry.

“You go home and get some rest before this Ceilidh,” she says, ushering Harry towards the door. “And you, nephew, had better finish your speech and get an early night - tomorrow will be a long day.”

He needs to get back anyway, he thinks as he _Disapparates_ from the drive. Hermione was making cryptic comments about seeing a man about a dog and he thinks he might know what she was talking about. He’s heard the old adage about never working with animals or children, and he can’t help but feel it might be relevant here.


	21. Chapter 21

“What do you think the odds are?” asks Ron lazily, over his coffee.

“Ten to one?” suggests Harry. He’s feeling more confident this morning for some reason.

“Is Draco coming over to update us on the preparations?” asks Hermione. “They’re my cornflakes, let me do it,” she snaps at Plunket who in the last two days seems to have decided that catering to her every whim is the way to her heart.

“Draco’s got that big speech in Fort William this morning,” says Harry, “Ted’s going to report on the defences Lucius has put in since he came up last night.”

“But aren’t you going?” she asks, engaging in a tug of war over the milk jug.

“I might,” he admits. “I’ll see what Ted has to say first, and if my ears don’t deceive me, that’s him now.”

Teddy bounds into the kitchen, his small face unusually solemn.

“Bad news. Draco’s dad came up last night and he’s putting ‘protective measures’ in place. He says John MacNab won’t be able to move on the estate without someone seeing.”

“Is he adding to the wards?” asks Hermione, between mouthfuls of cereal, while Plunket, temporarily vanquished, stands and glares at her.

Teddy nods. “He is, but Cousin Draco said to let you know you that they shouldn’t affect anyone who received an invitation to the party - Draco told him it would be mad to curse their guests.”

“I bet he didn’t put it quite like that,” comments Ron. “Anything else, Ted?”

“Yes,” he says seriously. “He’s brought up all the House Elves from Malfoy Manor - and there’s an awful lot you know - and Draco’s Elf - and most of the food is being done by Elf Help so their own Elves can help to guard the grounds tonight. He’s got hundreds of fairies lighting up the Peacock Walk and he’s put percussive wards on the peacock hut.”

“Phew," says Ron. “Sounds like a tough proposition. This one was never going to be easy, you knew that Harry.”

Harry swears.

“I make it about three hundred to one against now,” says Kingsley. “I won’t be putting my money on you, Harry." He stands. “I’m behind on my correspondence and my adviser sent up another box this morning. A Minister’s work is never done.”

“Aren’t you coming tonight, Mr Shacklebolt?” asks Teddy, and Kingsley shakes his head.

“Not planning to - haven’t even got dress robes up here. I’ll just meet Roddy at the boundary and _Apparate_ back with that peacock. Let me know when you want to head for Fort William,” he adds to Harry. “I quite fancy popping down to see what young Draco’s going to say - _Disillusioned_ of course.”

“Well that really puts the cat among the pigeons,” says Harry, a little blankly. “With all the gamekeepers, the agency Elves _and_ the Elves from Malfoy Manor, I don’t see how I’m going to catch that peacock undetected, and if, by a small stroke of good luck, I succeed, it’s going to be near impossible to get it off the estate unnoticed, even with Roddy and his cart.”

“I might have a way to shorten those odds,” says Hermione. “I think I’ll make a morning call on Mrs Malfoy.” She stands, washes up her own bowl, and grabs her coat.

Ron’s watching her in confusion. “What does she want to go and see Narcissa Malfoy for, now?”

“I think she’s going to see a man about a dog,” says Harry with a grin.

\---------------------------

“Any idea what young Malfoy’s planning?” asks Kingsley, his glamour shifting under Harry’s knowing eyes as they walk quickly down the high street from the _Apparition_ point.

“He hasn’t told me, precisely, but expect the unexpected,” says Harry.

“Oh hell,” says Kingsley, stopping so suddenly that Harry takes a few steps to realise and turn back to the newsagents. He swears under his breath.

To the irritation of passersby they stand, rigid, in front of the _Wizarding Highland Press_ ’ news-board.

_“Two down one tonight! Hat-trick for John MacNab? Rita Skeeter Special!”_

“Strange story, that,” says the newsagent, handing Harry his change. “Can’t tell if there’s a madman about, or just some teenagers having a lark.”

“Probably someone turned funny by the war,” says another customer. “Or maybe it’s Malfoy himself, doing it for the publicity.”

“I think it’s dangerous,” says one old lady as she pays for some dog treats. “Once this sort of lawlessness starts you don’t know where it will end. We might all be murdered in our beds.”

In Kingsley’s eyes Harry sees a mirror image of horror and impending hysterics.

“Could you direct us to the town hall, please?” Harry asks the shop-keeper.

“Off to see young Malfoy speak? I wouldn’t bother - those Malfoys always spout that same Pure Blood rubbish. You’d have thought they’d have learnt.”

“There’s a touch of the fanatic in the Malfoys, always has been,” says the old lady. “You’d be better off voting for Minister Shacklebolt, young man. Someone mature, someone you can trust to uphold Wizarding law, don’t you agree?” she finishes, including Kingsley in her gaze.

“Oh - Yes, yes indeed,” says Kingsley, and when Harry looks round he’s very sensibly bending down to pet the Highland Terrier at her feet.

“Bloody hell,” says Harry when they’re once more on their way. “We’re infamous.”

“As long as it’s John MacNab who’s infamous, and our names stay out of it,” says Kingsley, scanning Rita Skeeter’s guest article. “Are you sure Draco can hold his tongue?”

“I think we’re safe with him - and Dennis, probably,” says Harry, after a pause. “But I wouldn’t say the same for Lucius, or Skeeter, if she ever gets wind of it.”

 

They arrive at the town hall just as the great doors close, and manage to sneak into the back row.

“Is Lucius coming?” asks Kingsley in an undertone.

“I’m not sure , he might be directing operations at home,” says Harry. “What sort of crowd is this? Are they party supporters or locals?”

“Worried about your Malfoy?” asks Kingsley. “Should be a mixed crowd of locals. Draco’s due to speak after the Liberal candidate, but there’ll probably be some hardliners from both ends of the spectrum. There’s only two candidates running in the Fort William ward.”

As the conversation dies down and all eyes turn to the stage Harry’s hands clench involuntarily.

 

“Dreadful,” says Kingsley, when the Liberal candidate sits back down to a smattering of half-hearted applause. “The man’s a half-wit. He only got through the first selection because the locals are still so wary of the Malfoys.”

Harry agrees then stills as Draco, pale and resolute, comes to the rostrum. Most people are clapping politely, but there are a few cat calls and Harry, hyper-sensitive to everything going on behind that lectern, can easily read the stiff hands and set shoulders.

Draco looks up and the audience quietens.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he begins, voice wavering almost imperceptibly. “What I am about to say may be unexpected but I can promise you that it is the truth, and nothing but the truth.” There’s a stirring of interest in the crowd as Draco looks out over the room, searching. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it. He takes a deep breath.

“I am a Malfoy; I come from a long line of Malfoys, who have, almost without exception, believed in Pure Blood Supremacy.” He pauses. “I do not.”

“Pull the other one,” shouts a man down at the front, and pale hands grip the lectern until Harry’s own fingers ache. He stares at Draco; willing him on from the anonymity of the back row.

Perhaps Draco feels it, for, after a moment his chin lifts in the manner Harry remembers so well.

“I do not,” he repeats, as his eyes gather in the audience. “No one who went to school with Hermione Granger, Muggleborn; Ronald Weasley, ‘Blood Traitor’, Harry Potter himself, Half-Blood - or who has heard of Lily Potter, Muggleborn; Remus Lupin, Werewolf; Rubeus Hagrid, Half-Giant - could possibly believe that Pure Bloods are in any way greater, superior, special. It is a fallacy - a gross, disgusting, dangerous falla -”

Draco stutters to a stop and his hands fall as a blond figure steps forward from the shadowy side aisle. Lucius stands stiffly, his eyes locked with his son’s. The airless room is taut and charged, and next to Harry, Kingsley quietly slides his wand into his hand.

As Harry follows suit he makes a decision - for a moment, just a moment, he lets his glamour slip. Raising his head he looks directly at Draco, who startles, flushes, stares, as Harry and the room wait.

His head bows for a moment before, with a shaky breath, Draco’s hands return to the lectern, and even Lucius must be able to read the set of his jaw, for with a twirl worthy of Snape he turns and passes swiftly down the side aisle. When the great oak doors slam to there is a moment of hung silence. Then -

“You notice,” Draco continues, voice tremulous but increasingly determined, “You may notice, that I have not mentioned Squibs.” He pauses, looks around. “That is only because I do not dare utter the name of Angus Buchanan so far north.”

“Bloody Sassenach,” shouts a man in a cloth cap of Fraser tartan, down at the front.

There’s a titter of laughter, which spreads and swells, and Harry sits back in relief. He’s got them eating out of his hand now.

\----------------------------------

“The journalists might keep the watchers and guards busy,” says Ron, hopefully.

“They might,” says Hermione, scanning the paper over his shoulder. “Or it might mean that when things go horribly wrong they go horribly wrong in front of the entire Wizarding press corp. I wouldn’t fancy being you tonight, Harry.”

“ _When_ they go wrong?” asks Harry.

She shrugs, “I may have shortened the odds, but I won’t draw breath until that peacock is safe with Kingsley. It’s a good thing you’ve dropped the idea of running for Parliament, in more ways than one.”

“How did you get hold of him?” asks Kingsley, tickling the Crup, to its obvious delight, under the chin.

“Took Narcissa for a walk,” says Hermione. “I feel a bit bad actually, she was so pleased to see me. Anyway, Spangles seems to like being out, and I suggested we let him run around a bit as he’ll have to be locked up tonight. Roddy was waiting in the trees and I met him on the way home. Now we’ve just got to find somewhere for the little chap to spend the night.”

“I think he likes you,” says Ron.

“He’s not a bad little beast,” says Kingsley, stroking the silky hair right down until it separates into two tails. “I’ll keep an eye on him this afternoon. He can have a nap in my Dispatch Box.”

 

“Come and take this bloody Crup,” says Kingsley the moment Harry arrives back from his brief expedition to the Screwt and Horntail. After everything that’s happened it’s going to feel a bit weird wearing Draco’s suit, but he’s had no time to pick up dress robes from his own flat.

“What’s happened?” he asks, taking in his Minister’s harassed eyes.

Kingsley points to the shredded contents of his Dispatch Box. “He seemed to think he was hunting a rat or something in there. I came back to the room and found - that.”

“I’ll take him down to the kitchen and feed him,” says Harry, scooping up the little Crup.

Plinky and Plunket are not impressed by the addition to their kingdom, and Harry almost finds himself wishing for the more subservient type of House Elf.

“Crups is not belonging in kitchens,” says Plinky, arms folded.

“They is being unhygienic,” adds Plunket.

Harry sighs, his bedroom it is then, but Spangles had better not make hay in his borrowed suit. He can only imagine what Draco would say if he returned it looking like one of Kingsley’s ill-fated Dispatches.

\-----------------------------

  
He sits on his bed, surrounded by the scent which has overwhelmed his senses for days now.

There’s a knock and he drops the jacket to his lap. “Hello Roddy, everything ready for tonight?”

The boy, who already looks healthier and better dressed under his and, if he’s being honest, mainly Hermione’s patronage, grins.

“All’s well, Mr Potter. They’s having a bit of trouble down at the Malfoys. The lady’s Crup’s gone missing, as you may know, Sir, and she’s got all the House Elves looking for him in the woods. You could probably walk a Hippogriff right across that terrace just now and no one would be any the wiser.”

Harry snorts. “Unfortunately it’s later that’s the problem, but it sounds like the plan’s working. How’s Lucius taking it?”

“Not well, Sir,” he says, sunburned face crinkling. “He’s hopping mad but it’s Mrs Malfoy who wears the trews there these days and she’s having none of it. She’s that fond of the little Crup.”

“He’ll be even madder after Draco’s speech,” observes Harry as they head down the stairs. The others are waiting.

“Perhaps he’ll have an apoplexy,” says Ron, a little too hopefully for Harry’s liking.

“I’ve packed up some supper for you,” says Hermione, handing Roddy a brown packet. “Make sure you eat it.”

“Can’t have you turning faint on the job." Harry ruffles the boy’s hair. “I’ll see you by the kitchens later, but I’ve no idea when. Sure you’ll be able to get in and out alright?”

“Easy,” says Roddy. “I’ve got a cartload of fresh oysters and the Elves will be wanting them soon enough. Mr Draco told them to let me in for a cup of tea and a bite to eat, so I’ll be there all evening.” His hand rises in a mock salute. “Good luck, Sir.”

“See you later,” replies Harry, waving as the cart trundles down the lane. He’s going to have to work a bit more on getting Roddy to drop the honorific, but he thinks he can leave that until later - maybe when they’ve set up the Squib refuge, which has, in the space of one evening, grown from nebulous idea to fully fledged plan.

“Where are we meeting Luna?” asks Hermione, adjusting her hem in the hall mirror.

“At the Malfoy’s,” says Harry. “She’s _Apparating_ over with Wilfred - apparently there’s some sort of intimidating reception line and she doesn’t want him to face it alone.”

“God, I hate those things. Come _on_ Ron,” she adds.”

Ron appears in the kitchen door, fiddling with his starched collar. “It’s far too hot to be in dress robes,” he complains.

“At least you don’t have to wear a kilt underneath,” replies Hermione, tartly.

“What are we going to do with Spangles?” asks Harry as the little Crup darts in between the floating edges of Ron’s best cloak.

“I’ll get the Elves to look after him,” she says, picking Spangles up by the scruff of his neck. “Plunket, can you let him out for a run later please? He’s going mad pent up in doors and we don’t want any accidents.”

“No, we is not,” says Plunket, taking the Crup with unusual equanimity. “Plunket will let him out later.” He returns to the kitchen and Harry looks after him.

“Last minute nerves, Harry?”

“You’ll be late,” says Kingsley from the bottom of the stairs. “Looking lovely as usual Hermione.”

“Can’t say the same for you,” she returns and he pulls a face. Washed, Harry thinks Kingsley’s clothes don’t look _quite_ as bad as they did after his spell in the chicken shed, but he still looks closer to a tramp than a respectable member of society, let alone Minister.

“Some of us will be working tonight, while you swan around in high society,” says Kingsley. “Good luck, guys and for Merlin’s sake, be careful.”


	22. Chapter 22

  
“The key to getting through this,” says Ron, as they walk up the gravel drive, “Is to know which dances involve changing partners and which ones you’re stuck with. Nothing worse than being stuck with someone you hate for a whole dance or being split from the girl you fancy after the first minute.”

Harry’s only half-listening. He’s looking up towards the house and groaning inwardly as he sees the massed fairies illuminating the length of the Peacock Walk. If he’s to kidnap a peacock tonight he might have to do it in fairylight and full view of two hundred people.

“Good heavens - Is that Audrey and Percy over there?” Hermione stands on tiptoes to peer over the mingling crowd.

Even from Harry’s vantage point he can’t tell. “Not sure, but if they’re here we’ll only need Augusta Longbottom to have the whole set. Come on ‘Mione, we’ve got the reception line to get through.”

“Andromeda’s gone over to Mrs Longbottom’s, hasn’t she ‘Mione? Won't be in the same house as him." Ron nods towards the line.

There’s silence. Looking behind Harry realises that Hermione has stopped dead as she stares up towards the house.

“Mione?”

“Oh hell,” says Ron, walking quickly back towards her. “I warned her, but you know, thinks she’s invincible.”

“She usually is,” says Harry, hurrying to join them. “She’s been here before though.”

Hermione’s patented idiot look looks strange on Ron, “Yes, but bloody Lucius hasn’t been here, has he?”

“I know I’m being an idiot,” Hermione whispers, clutching her little pearl encrusted bag.

“No,” says Ron, facing her and lifting her chin. “You’re not. We can go home, ‘Mione. Harry doesn’t _absolutely_ need us, do you mate?”

“I’ll be fine,” says Harry, with more conviction than he feels.

“See,” says Ron. “Harry will be all right. He’s got plenty of people to help him.”

“It’s so stupid,” she says, clenching her hands. “I see him around the Ministry and it’s not been a problem.”

“Yeah, but you always say he keeps out of your way. This is the first time you’ve seen him on his home turf. I’m not surprised it’s affected you,” says Ron, very sensibly, Harry thinks until in an aside he whispers “Just like Quidditch”.

“I’ll be fine, honestly,” says Harry, touching her elbow. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got out of messes without your help before. Ex-Head Auror - remember?”

At that she looks up with a laugh and a sniff. “I’ll be fine. Honestly, you two. This is revenge.”

“That’s the way to do it,” says Ron, giving her a hug.

“If you’re sure?” says Harry.

“Yes,” she says, snapping her bag shut and setting her shoulders. “The die is cast. Come on troops.”

Harry’s not convinced but there’s no time for more for Draco - who has been hovering in the corner of Harry’s vision, hair glowing under the full moon - is coming towards them.

“Don’t worry," whispers Draco, pulling him away from reception line forming along the path, “I’ve hidden one of the peacocks in the orchard. I’ve trained him to come for corn, so you should be all right.” Discreetly he tucks a small packet into Harry’s chest pocket, and brushes down his shoulders. “Should she even be here?”

Harry shrugs. He’s not going to be the one to tell Hermione what to do. It never works out well.

“Hmmm,” says Draco, then adds more loudly, “There you go. You were covered in dog hair. I’d better rejoin my parents.”

Harry shivers and looks up to meet the amused eyes of a rather grand looking Witch. Oh hell, this is how rumours start.

 

“Mr Potter,” says Narcissa, smiling as she holds out her hand. “I am so pleased you were able to come.” She turns to her husband, “Lucius, dear, I’m sure you remember Mr Potter.”

Harry looks at Lucius, who scowls until nudged by his wife. “Delighted, I’m sure.” he murmurs. “Do we have you to thank for Draco’s little political change of heart earlier?”

“Not here,” hisses Narcissa, as she turns to greet Hermione and Ron.

“Mr Weasley. Mrs Weasley, thank you my dear. I really do appreciate this, you know.” She keeps Hermione’s hand in hers. “I’ll be back in a moment Lucius. Come along with me.”

Greatly wondering, Harry follows them through the hall and into a small room with a blazing fire. “This is my own sitting room, Mrs Weasley. If you ever feel you need a little peace and quiet you can come here.”

“Thank you,” mutters Hermione and Narcissa regards her minutely.

“I think you need a glass of champagne. I’m sure Mr Potter will oblige while you have a little tidy up.” She motions to the mirror over the fire and Harry follows his hostess into the ballroom, which, being over-sized for the relatively modest house, is clearly Wizarding space and is decorated with hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of fairies. A couple of elderly looking House Elves are guarding a glittering table of champagne glasses.

“They’re spelled to refill automatically,” says Narcissa. “But there aren’t enough House Elves free to wait so Draco suggested the guests could serve themselves. It wouldn’t have done in my day but I suppose we have to move with the times. My Crup, Spangles, went missing this morning and I’ve had all the Elves and gamekeepers out looking for him. I’m rather afraid he’s been attacked by something. He’s never run off before and he’s a house-Crup really.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later,” says Harry, feeling his face heat. “I’ll, er, just take Hermione a glass.”

\-------------------------

“Do you think we’ll see anything?" asks one well-dressed woman to their right.

“Brought my Omnioculars just in case,” replies her partner, patting the pocket of his old-fashioned robes.

“I’d like to see old Lucius routed, and there’s every chance - this John MacNab has already succeeded at the Longbottom’s and the Cockburns."

“I heard he even managed to evade the personal protection Aurors the Under Secretary had sent up from the Ministry," says a short squat woman Harry recognises from the Wizengamot.

Harry raises his eyebrows and Hermione rolls her eyes before freezing. He turns.

“Skeeter.”

“I thought Mr Malfoy had banned all press until after the ceilidh,” says Hermione, casually twirling her wand between forefinger and thumb.

“No need for that, Mrs Weasley. We have ways and means,” says Skeeter, her eyes following the wand. “Unusual to see you lot here, isn’t it? Wouldn’t have thought it was quite your cup of tea?”

“Always happy to encourage cross-party collaboration,” says Harry. “Post-war politics makes for strange bedfellows, you know.”

Opposite Hermione closes her eyes as, “Funny you should say that,” begins Skeeter.

There’s a tap on the loudspeaker.

“Will you all choose your partners for the Gay Gordons - form a circle please.”

Skeeter waves her quill, “Off you go Harry. I’m sure you men are in demand tonight.” She turns to Hermione, “Come along Mrs Weasley. I’ll have this one with you, unless you’re already booked.”

“It’d better be progressive,” mutters Hermione as Harry turns to make the best of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapters are almost finished but real life is in the way a little at present. They'll be up soon.


	23. Chapter 23

Harry glances discreetly at his watch - it’s already half past eight and every time he tries to leave the building he’s waylaid and asked to dance, which, in reality means he’s asked to comment on the likely success of John MacNab (getting lower by the minute), the incongruity of his appearance at the Malfoy party (where to even start), or, in the case of those with Ministry contacts, his likely successor in the Auror Department (Ron).

He’s been acutely conscious of Draco all evening, even though they haven’t managed to exchange much beyond a smile and nod when they find themselves holding hands in the Flying Scotsman.

“Good speech,” says Harry as they dodge in and out of the line.

Draco spares him a quick, flushed glance. “I thought you weren’t coming, and then -”

“Have there been any -- repercussions?” Harry asks, not very hopefully.

Draco curls his lip. “It will be discussed after the ceilidh, when you’ve all gone home. Malfoys don’t row in public.”

“Can we talk, later?”

“Duty calls, but I’ll come and find you - I’m sure I can find space on my dance card.”

 

Finally he manages to slip into the cool hall. He’s thirsty and panting and he’s sure the stag mounted above the fireplace just winked at him. He leans against the door for a moment wiping his brow.

“Sorry!” the door barges open behind him and he steps out of the way.

“Harry,” says Audrey Weasley. “I was looking for you. Rita Skeeter’s out prowling on the terrace. Hermione’s running interference - which seems to involve talking about the Northern Ireland peace process for some reason - and Draco said you need to leave by the side door.”

“Right,” says Harry. “Any idea where that is?”

She points, and he needs to leave but she’s looking at him uncertainly, and twisting her hands together. Never one to ignore a damsel in distress he pauses.

“Are you all right?”

She takes a deep breath. “I’d like to speak to you about Percy - I am hoping you can intercede with his family.”

Harry relaxes. “If this is about the other day, I’m already on it. I know without a doubt that the most important thing for Molly and Arthur is family. It will hit them hard, of course it will, just _because_ family is so important to them, but at the end of the day all they will care about is getting you four back in the fold.”

She nods. “He’s not as bad as you all think, you know. He’s not like the rest of them, and even _he_ recognises he’s a little pompous and self-important, but fundamentally he’s a good, kind man.” Her hands clench. “You know that my parents were killed, soon after we married. I didn’t agree with them but I still loved them and Percy was --, well, Percy was wonderful. I don’t know what I would have done without him. He’s deeply unhappy about how things have turned out Harry, so please do your best to smooth things over.”

For someone as self-contained as Audrey the candour is telling. Moved, Harry touches her arm. “I’ll do what I can,” he promises and makes to leave.

“Talking of good men,” says Audrey and Harry pauses. He thinks he knows what’s coming.

“I have no wish to intrude, but, Draco is a very dear friend and I realise that -- I would not like to see him hurt. Your - friendship - must mean a great deal to him. He doesn’t allow himself to get close to many people and he has let you in. You may not realise what a gift that is.”

“I won’t. I do know,” says Harry, somewhat confusedly.

“He’s a good man. He does a lot - he doesn’t shout about it, and no one would believe him if he did - but there's his work behind the scenes for the traumatised children, and he went against his father, at great personal cost, to bring Teddy and Andromeda into the family and have Teddy recognised as the next heir. He will never be able to forgive himself for what he did as a child, and he will take any punishment and believe himself deserving of it. It would be very easy to hurt him unwittingly.”

“It’s all right,” says Harry. “You don’t need to convince me. I really had better go now, before Skeeter comes after me -”

She presses his arm, “Thank you for listening. Good hunting!”


	24. Chapter 24

Within moments he bumps into Dennis who, a cigarette clamped between his teeth, appears to be capturing the action with a long lens camera.

“Hullo Harry - on your way to you know what? Come and have a look at the sport in the woods.”

He stands back to let Harry peer through the lens. From afar it looks like chaos and if he listens carefully he can hear the excited squeaks of the Elves and the shouts of the journalists they are pursuing.

“Who’s winning?”

“Us, so far.” He takes back the camera. “I suggested to the other reporters that they might get through the wards if they piggyback on the plus one invitations of single guests. A good few have got through - enough to keep the Elves occupied anyway - but none of them have got up to the house yet.”

“What about the Elves searching for the Crup, are they still busy?”

Dennis pulls the cigarette from his mouth. “They’re still looking, but I’ve been meaning to warn you that Mrs Malfoy keeps coming out onto that terrace and calling for him. She’s been out every couple of dances all evening, so you’ll have to watch out for her.”

“Thanks.” He slaps Dennis on the back. “I’m going in that direction, so if you see anyone heading my way, see if you can distract them.”

“Will do.”

 

As he plunges through the gravel paths of the formal garden - and is it honestly warm enough to grow palm trees here - he sees no sign of the peacocks, which have indeed been corralled somewhere safe.

“You is not being allowed here,” says a diminutive Elf Harry had mistaken for a sundial, blocking his path.

“It’s alright, I’m a guest,” Harry replies, pointing to his suit.

“That is a Muggle suit, guests is not wearing Muggle attire.”

“Times have changed, and I’ve got an invitation,” says Harry, reaching into his inner pocket. He opens it and the shimmering _Accessus_ magic glows blue, but the Elf remains unconvinced.

“Guests is not being allowed here. Guests is to be dancing and drinking. Shifty will take you back - Master’s orders.” The Elf, with a surprisingly firm grip takes his arm and starts to pull him back towards the house.

“What is you doing Shifty?” comes a familiar voice and as he emerges into the light Harry recognises Draco’s own Elf, the one with the lop ears. “This is being Master Draco’s special friend.”

The small Elf stops, although his grip does not loosen. “Master’s orders -”

“Ranky is under Master Draco’s orders, and Master Draco’s orders is to let Mr Harry Potter go wherever he wants.”

Harry loses several valuable moments as the Elves engage in a staring contest. Fortunately Ranky appears to win, for, head bowed, the smaller Elf retreats. They wait until the garden and drive are once more deserted.

“You is lucky it was Shifty, he is young and will listen to Ranky. Some of the other Elves will not.”

“Thank you Ranky.”

“Be going, Mr Harry Potter Sir, you has little time,” says the Elf, making a shooing motion.

\---------------------

In the Orchard he can’t see anything at first, what with all the trees and shadows, but after a few minutes creeping from trunk to trunk he thinks he spots the brilliant white of an albino peacock. He reaches for the seeds and shuffles as closely to the bird as he dares, without frightening it off.

He shakes the bag, “Here birdie birdie, come on, chuck chuck chuck.” He’s never had to attract a peacock before but Mrs Danetski on the ground floor has a cat and he often hears her clucking and rustling its food. He hopes it works on birds too.

The peacock turns and after an unnerving stare, steps slowly closer, neck outstretched. Harry throws a few seeds but it doesn’t have the desired effect, because the bird stops, glares and turns his back, before strutting off to the safety of a nearby apple tree. It probably only eats organic seeds hand-grown by the Chief bloody Warlock himself. Pets resemble their owners, or so he’s heard.

Ten minutes of approach and retreat later Harry’s running dangerously short of both patience and bird seed when at last the peacock pauses, turns and freezes. It’s only a second but it’s the second he needed and he pounces, grabs and he’s done it. One peacock in the bag. Or, rather, tucked under his arm. Sighing with relief he’s about to head towards the kitchen garden when -

“It’s the perfect spot,” he hears over by the lake.

“Aren’t we rather, er, visible from the terrace?” asks a breathless woman.

“I thought you liked that sort of thing?” There’s laughter and a rustle, and yep, sounds like clothes being taken off. Absolutely bloody fantastic. Harry closes his eyes and crooks his finger around the peacock’s beak. He can only hope it’s over and done with quickly because he’s pretty sure he’s got to pass the lake to get to the kitchens.

“Squawk,” says the peacock, struggling free and nipping Harry hard in the process. He suppresses a squawk of his own and backs further from the prickly hedge. Well bugger this for a game of soldiers.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, baby,” there’s panting. “Come on, it was just getting good -”

“There’s someone here, I’m telling you. Let’s go behind the hedge.”

There’s a zip and a reluctant groan. “Alright. If that’s what it takes -”

Oh hell. Harry sinks to the ground, hoping he won’t get mud on Draco’s trousers, and, peacock tucked under his left arm, keeping to the shadows, he crawls in the direction of the lake, and away from their voices. He hadn’t planned to come this way but it seems -

For a moment, panting at the bottom of the ditch he wonders why Draco failed to mention the existence of some sort of invisible fucking trench between the garden proper and the wilder part of the estate, and then he remembers hearing something about a ha ha. Well ha fucking ha. He’s in now - up to his neck in it, actually - damp, dark, stinking, and part filled with stagnant water.

Thank goodness he has his wand this time. There’s no way he could go back inside covered in mud, and his non-reappearance might cause dangerous comment. He has a feeling that _Tergeo_ isn’t recommended for Elf-wrought cashmere but he has no choice. Draco’s so going to kill him.

The ha ha has, however, safely hidden him from the amorous couple, and as quiet falls once more - he doesn’t really want to think about why - he peers carefully over the parapet. Circling the lake the right way this time he holds on tight but the peacock does not appear to appreciate this treatment and makes its displeasure known - loudly. Concentrating on wrapping the bird firmly in Draco’s suit jacket and wondering if he should, Hermione be dammed, just stun the bloody thing, he’s not paying enough attention to his surroundings. He jumps as the ground lights up beneath him and a jet of water misses him by inches.

“What the -?”

It’s just the small island thing the Malfoys have in the middle of their lake. They must have some sort of movement activation charm because Venus, rising in full and voluptuous splendour out of the water, is glowing pink then purple, then red. He hopes no one’s looking from the terrace because he and Venus are both bathed in bright light and the white feathers of the peacock’s head must be glowing like a beacon.

He darts forward, keeping low until with a sigh of relief he reaches the shadow of the balustrade. The terrace is above him and as he pauses for a breather he hears the last strains of Scotland the Brave fade away and the chatter of voices as the dancers leave the floor. Hopefully no one will come out for fresh air.

“Here you are. Take this before I drop it will you.”

“I’m sure I saw something, over there, by the loch, just before you came out.”

He ducks down hoping no one is moved to lean over the balustrade and thanks Merlin that he’s not still stuck down in Blackpool bloody illuminations.

“Probably an Elf - hasn’t Lucius got them on sentry duty?” comes a strident, dismissive voice.

“Do you know what it looked to me?” come cultured tones he has to strain to hear. “It looked like Harry Potter, with someone...”

There’s a murmur of interest, and Harry guesses there are three, maybe four people watching from the terrace.

“His glasses were reflecting the light,” says the first speaker, an older man, at Harry’s guess.

“But who was he with?” says a very interested voice.

“I’m not sure,” says Older Man. “Let’s play it back on my Omnioculars.”

Harry suppresses a groan and shrinks further into gloom. At least the peacock’s cooperating for once. There’s silence.

“I can’t really see,” he hears at last. “Looks like a blond to me. Maybe the Lovegood girl.”

“Don’t be silly,” says Cultured Tones. “We just came past her - she’s dancing with that Ministry vet, or whatever he is. Give them to me.”

“Narcissa’s lowering her standards,” says Strident Voice.

“Ooooooh,” breathes Cultured Tones. “I don’t think that’s a woman, Stanislas.”

There’s the sound of a tussle. Then -

“That’s a Malfoy.”

“I hardly think -”

“Not Lucius, you fool. The boy.”

“How can you even tell? All I can see is a flash of white.”

“He’s probably got him hiding under that Invisibility Cloak of his.”

“Everyone knows that’s locked up in the Department of Mysteries,” says Strident Voice. “I wonder what Lucius will have to say to this.”

“He’s Harry Potter,” says Older Man. “He can probably just borrow it.”

“ _Carpe opportunitatem_ ,” says Cultured Tones.

The French doors creak open as Harry holds his breath. Discovery is very near and he only hopes it isn’t Lucius.

“Oooh, did you see the Heliopaths? They like to come and recharge when it’s a full moon,” comes a very familiar voice. “Can I borrow your Omnioculars?"  
Harry breathes a sigh of relief.

“ _Heliopaths?_ ” says a dubious voice, not very quietly.

“Mad as a hatter,” mutters Cultured Tones. “Better humour her, she’s Narcissa’s protégée.”

“That’s so kind,” says Luna.

There’s a slightly strained silence whilst Harry starts to edge along the shadow thrown by the balustrade. The last thing he hears is -

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry - I think the Heliopaths have over-exposed your film. I do hope I haven’t wiped something important.”

\--------------------------------

At the kitchen garden Roddy is waiting philosophically on his cart, chewing a steak sandwich and drinking a mug of Butterbeer.

“Sorry I’ve been so long,” says Harry as the bloody peacock pecks at his wrist. “Birds weren’t cooperating.”

“That’s all right,” says Roddy. “They Elves has kept me fed and watered. You might want to do something about the blood, Sir, before you go back inside.”

Harry glances down to see a spreading blood stain on his cuffs and the borrowed suit. Oh well, one more _Tergeo_ isn’t going to make much difference at this stage.  
He bundles the squawking, pecking menace over to Roddy and he’s surprised to see a familiar tousled head peek over the side of the noxiously fishy cart.

“What are you doing here Teddy?”

“Don’t tell Grandmother, please Uncle Harry. I’m supposed to be in bed.” He grins cheekily and Harry knows he’s going to give in. He can never resist when Teddy reminds him of Tonks.

“All right,” he compromises, “As long as you go to bed by ten and you don’t leave the grounds. Better have a bath too, stinky.”

Teddy nods seriously, “I won’t. I promise.” He digs in his pocket. “Here.”

“What’s this?"

Teddy shrugs. “Draco asked me to give it to you.”

Harry opens the brown wrapped parcel carefully. Inside is a rather battered book - a children’s book, and a much loved one by the looks of it.

“The Velveteen Rabbit,” he reads, mystified.

“Oh, I know that one,” says Roddy.

“It’s a Muggle children’s book,” says Teddy. “It was one of my favourites when I was just a kid. That looks like Draco’s.”

Suppressing a smile, Harry carefully opens the book, and indeed, inside is a fancy book plate and Draco’s name in careful childish letters.

“Did he say anything else?”

“Just said there are plenty of pictures so he thinks you’ll be all right, but if you get stuck he’ll come and read it to you,” says Roddy with a grin.

“He said it was the start of your education,” adds Ted. “What does he mean?”

“Er, private joke,” says Harry, shrinking the book and tucking it into his breast pocket. He needs to get back to the ceilidh before he’s missed.

“Go straight to Kingsley,” he says, jumping down from the wheel arch. “Keep it well-covered. He should be just outside the wards. And then I suggest you head over to the Longbottom’s and stay out of the way Roddy. They'll give you an alibi if you need one.”

“Right you are.” Roddy taps the pony and moves off down the drive.

“You - bed," says Harry pointing upstairs. Once Teddy's in bed and Roddy and the peacock are off the grounds he thinks he'll be able to breathe more easily.


	25. Chapter 25

“Will you have this one with me, Harry,” says Draco. “It’s the Rozsa.”

The name rings a vague bell but Harry can’t place it. He’s about to agree when he sees Narcissa approaching at speed. “Looks like your mother’s on the war path.”

“No Draco, this won’t do,” says Narcissa coming over and taking Harry’s hand. “We can’t have you tying up Mr Potter. There are never enough men at these things,” she says in an aside to Harry. “I’ve found you a partner I think you’ll like. She's a big fan.”

“Sorry, maybe later" says Harry, and lets himself be led away and into a couple with a buxom and overly-made up woman.

He glances over at Draco, attempting to catch his eye with a look of mock horror, but Draco flushes and turns aside. Struck with sudden misgiving Harry tries to break away, but the music has started up and the woman at his side has no intention of letting the night’s celebrity escape. Before he can do anything he is drawn into the waltz. Maybe he’ll come face to face with Draco if they change partners. He keeps a look out throughout the dance, but Draco’s gone and he’s stuck with his blond woman until the very end. She’s all over him and there’s no way to avoid it in such an intimate dance, he realises. Completely different from the round dances and reels he’s been doing all evening.

The very moment the last note fades he breaks away, no doubt flouting every rule of Pure Blood etiquette, and as people bow to their partners around him he’s scanning, searching, for a familiar white blond head. Eventually he sees him, escorting a scantily clad woman back to her seat and approaching another, head bowing over her hand, heels clicking together.

“Draco!” he calls, but Draco doesn’t seem to hear. Flushing thanks to the amused glances of everyone around him he starts pushing through the crowds, but the Caller is announcing the next dance and he can’t get through as people mill back onto the dance floor, forming sets.

An arm tugs him aside and he’s about to push it away when he sees Hermione looking anxiously at him.

“What’s the matter?” she hisses.

“I don’t know. Draco, he -” he stops, at a loss. For what did happen? He’s not entirely sure, but he doesn’t think he was mistaking the hurt look in Draco’s eyes as he turned away. He’s seen it before, and not long ago. Shit.

“You’re number one,” says a strange man in a kilt and pulls him into line.

Hermione’s nudged into place opposite and she shrugs. Looks like they’re doing this dance, whatever it is.

The music starts and Harry is being pulled, pushed, and turned in a variety of bewildering directions.  
As he meets Hermione in the middle and spins her around she shouts, “What happened?”

“That last dance - the Roz whatever - I was supposed to dance with Draco,” he starts, before someone’s shouting at him and pulling him away.

“The Rozsa?” she says, eyes wide, when they meet again. “Wow. That was brave, in front of everyone.”

He spins a man round next, and surely that’s not right. A forest of hands reach out to push him in the opposite direction, and when he sees Hermione he shouts, desperately, “We didn’t dance - Narcissa got me to dance with some awful old hag.”

He turns to his next partner and pales, oops.

Hermione yanks him back to the middle, “You turned him down and then danced with someone else?”

“Yes,” he screams, “It wasn’t my fault, but he won’t even look at me.”

The painted lady steps sharply on his toe. “Ow,” he says before spinning her to the next man in line.

When, thankfully, he and Hermione reach the bottom of the line, sweating and panting, she drags him aside and into a velvet curtained recess.

“What have I done?” he asks, a little desperately.

“I’m afraid,” she begins, still breathless, “That that was a bad move. Didn’t you know that in a ceilidh you can turn someone down if they ask you to dance - ask you properly, I mean -, but you can’t then dance that particular dance with someone else? It’s seen as a calculated insult.”

“Oh shit.” He sinks onto a sofa. “But, surely, he knows I’m not very good at Pure Blood etiquette."

Hermione bits her lip, “I’m sorry Harry, but that’s Muggle etiquette too, at least in Scotland. Don’t you remember Professor McGonagall telling us before the Tri-Wizard ball?”

Harry groans inwardly, and perhaps out loud too, because Hermione’s patting his hand.

“What are you doing cuddling up to my wife?” comes a new voice, and Harry moves over to make room.

“Draco asked Harry to dance the Rozsa,” says Hermione over his head, “And then Narcissa got him to dance with someone else.”

“It was only Malfoy,” says Ron, and Hermione is shaking her head frantically.

“What is it with the Rozsa?” asks Harry. “Why is it such a big deal?”

“The Rozsa,” begins Hermione in her best lecturing voice, “Is the slinkiest, most sensual Waltz in the Ceilidh repertoire. You probably noticed it feels very different from the other dances."

“Asking someone to dance the Rozsa, specifically,” adds Ron, “Is tantamount to a proposal, or used to be, in Pure Blood circles. I wouldn’t worry, it’s not like Malfoy hasn’t been rude to you in the past, though I will say he seems half decent these days,” he adds.

Harry raises his head and looks at Ron, just looks.

“Oh, bloody hell mate. That’s -” grimaces Ron, his freckles standing out even more obviously than usual.

“Yes it is, isn’t it,” says Harry.

“I can’t believe I didn’t realise,” says Ron, looking, rather comically, both aggrieved and relieved.

“I can,” says Hermione tartly. “You’re the only person I know to watch the whole of Four Weddings and a Funeral and fail to realise that Gareth and Matthew were a couple.”  
“I thought they were very good friends,” says Ron.

“So were we,” says Hermione pointedly.

It’s threatening to turn into one of the pointless marital spats that Ron once told Harry usually lead to a make-up session in bed, so he breaks in, “Come on guys, crisis here. How the hell do I fix this?”

“Do you really want to?” asks Ron, earning himself a kick from Hermione. “Sorry. But are you absolutely sure he is who he is making himself out to be?”

“Yes,” says Harry with conviction, as Hermione launches into a list of good deeds that even Harry hasn’t even heard of despite his - he can admit it now - fascination with the rare tidbits of Malfoy gossip that made it to him at the Ministry in recent years.

“Alright,” says Ron defeated at last, although he’s still eyeing Harry in silent dismay.

“Does it really mean a proposal?” Harry finally manages to break in, horrified - and something else he cannot name.

“No no,” says Hermione, “It doesn’t mean that anymore, but it is a very clear statement of interest, or intent. Draco was putting a lot on the line.”

“What do I do?” he asks, a little desperately. “I think he’s avoiding me.”

Hermione peers out into the main room, “He’s doing his duty. Get out there and dance, and when you come face to face make the most of it.”

“It’s Cumberland Square Eight,” says Ron, to Harry’s complete mystification.

“An eight? You’ll have to dance with Harry then, Ron, he’s the girl.”

Ron looks horrified, “Why can’t you?”

Hermione taps her foot, “The women dance together all the time, Ronald. If Harry is to get close to Draco he needs to take the woman’s position.”

“Yes, Hermione, but -” starts Ron, before he’s forcibly ejected onto the dance floor.

“I didn’t think you had a problem,” says Harry.

“I don’t,” insists Ron, “It’s just - it’s the Basket’.”

They are swept into an eight before Harry can react, and looking back he sees Hermione, hand across mouth. Turning back bewildered he’s thankful to note that Draco seems to be in this set, even if he’s on the other side and is looking studiously in the other direction.

The music starts and as Ron clasps Harry for the first move Harry’s spirits sink, it doesn’t look like he’s going to get close enough to talk.

“Watch this,” says Ron. “We’ve got to do that in a moment.”

Harry’s eyebrows rise as he sees Draco and the others form a tight circle, and then up. Oh bugger.

Then it’s their turn and he’s in the air, legs flying as Ron huffs and pants beneath him.

As he returns to solid ground Ron mutters, “You’re going on a diet, mate. I’m not sure I can manage to lift you up again,” and a familiar splutter makes his heart leap. Recent experience has shown that Draco can be reached with humour when all else fails, and if Harry is the subject then so be it.

“When will I get near him?” he whispers anxiously.

“Wait,” says Ron. “Far too soon for my liking.”

As the music changes Harry realises that this time he and Ron will be forming the basket with Draco and his partner, an immensely fat Witch in her fifties. Draco’s on his left and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to hold him - Draco is much slighter and he has quite a burden already. In an effort to help matters he jumps into the air before he can be thrown, but the sudden impact knocks Ron sideways and their basket veers towards the table laden with champagne.

“Watch out!” calls the Witch, giggling as Ron and Draco attempt to spin the basket.

Harry knows he’s only got a moment, “Draco, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Careful!" shouts Draco as Ron lurches under the weight and Harry’s legs swing horizontally towards the table. There’s an almighty crash, and Harry finds himself in a heap, his fall cushioned by the Witch, who is whooping and wheezing, while Draco and Ron stand, aghast, looking down at what remains of the table and hundreds of probably heirloom champagne glasses.

“What in Merlin’s name -” begins the familiar voice of Lucius Malfoy, and Harry looks up.

“Mister - Potter. I should have known.”

“Father -” starts Draco.

“Kranky, more champagne. Now." A horrified looking House Elf hurries over. “Continue,” he calls, and the music instantly recommences.

“My apologies, Madam Blitherbottom,” says Draco, holding out a hand. “I hope you were not hurt?”

Harry groans as he stands; Odwulf Blitherbottom is the biggest backer of Lucius Malfoy’s party.

Madam Blitherbottom is heaved to her feet and instantly doubles over. They all surround her in concern before they realise she’s giggling and gasping.

“Thank you boys,” she says. “No harm done, and Mr Potter and I were perhaps a bit too much for you two to cope with. Merlin, I haven’t laughed this much in years.”

Making their apologies and leaving the two Malfoys to escort Madam Blitherbottom to her table, Harry is dragged by Ron back to the alcove where Hermione’s crowing with mirth.

Harry looks over his shoulder. “He’s injured.”

“Who is?” asks Ron. “I _tried_ to tell you,” he adds to Hermione.

“I’ve got to go," says Harry, bracing himself and plunging into the reeling mass, winding from side to side to avoid flying feet and galloping couples.


	26. Chapter 26

“You’re hurt,” he says, heart hammering, catching Draco just as he’s stepping through the French doors and onto the terrace.

Draco pauses. “I’m fine. Just a bit bruised. Look, I need to get back in and see -”

He’s turning and Harry knows he only has this chance. The noise, the music, the heat - it’s all too much and he wants to take Draco away, out of all this. He pulls him through the doors into the cool fragrant night.

“Please.”

“Not here,” whispers Draco, his voice barely audible over the floating wail of the accordion.

“Draco -"

His voice is stark. “Harry, let me go. It’s only a bruise, nothing serious.”

“It’s your wand hand. Come on, let me heal it for you,” Harry gently takes the reddened, swollen wrist and whispers a wandless _Episkey_.

Draco sighs, and stills. He gazes down as Harry, hardly daring to breath, does not let go.

“Did I hurt you?"

Finally Draco looks up. “Yes, no. Not now. It’s fine - thank you."

“I didn’t mean to," Harry says, looking into hunted grey eyes.

“Which time?" asks Draco, with a gasp that hits that Harry so hard his stomach clenches.

“Any time. Er, recently," he adds, with more honesty that he intended.

The almost-sob is an almost-laugh this time.

“Oh, Potter, you -" he breaks off, and gazes down at the Fairies illuminating the balustrade, but he leaves his hand in Harry’s and now Harry can hardly draw breath. The air around them stills, and as if on cue, the music fades away into the night.

At last, greatly daring, Harry strokes a gentle thumb over the skittering pulse. “Draco -”

He turns and for a moment Harry thinks he’s lost his chance, until he gets a glimpse of vulnerable, open eyes.

“Yes.”

Their lips meet, and it’s an indefinable mingling of _at last_ , and tea and heat, and the subtle wood-smoky smell which has been overwhelming his senses for so long, and which he has come, irrevocably, to associate with Draco. And tea. _Tea?_

He opens his eyes and his body, aching, protests. “Why do you smell like tea?”

Draco huffs, wafting even more of the heady, familiar scent to Harry’s nostrils. “Is that really important, right at this moment?”

Harry reaches, pulls him back. “No, not really. But that smell has been driving me crazy. It was -- everywhere.”

“Sorry,” says Draco, and suddenly there’s uncertainty, and tension, and a little bit of reserve that Harry wants, needs, to stop right now.

“I like it,” he says, just in time. “You smell -- good. I feel like I’m drowning in you.” He draws Draco back towards him and presses a kiss to his jaw, trailing down to the pulse point just above his collar. Breath catching at the sheer intimacy, that _Draco_ is letting _him_ do _this_ , he hides his face in a crook of warm smoky neck.

“Oh god," says Harry as shaky fingers stroke through the hair at the nape of his neck, sending tingling sensations down the length of his spine, and threatening to overwhelm him.

“Oh fuck you’re beautiful.” It’s a rare slip of the tongue, it must be - Harry can already feel the tension building beneath his fingers.

“Yes,” he says, looking up into grey eyes that are still shadowed with restraint. “I want this.”

He reaches as Draco’s shoulders relax almost imperceptibly, threads his fingers into the soft feathers of hair that he always knew would feel so different from his own, and meets warm lips that are searching desperately for his.

It’s hot and soft, and hot and oh _god_ , why didn’t they do this years ago. Aching, Harry pushes forward as he pulls Draco’s tight lean body flush with his. The music’s started up again but he doesn’t care because Draco’s groaning and gasping and arching up under his hands, and it’s almost too much.

“We can’t, not here,” says Draco at last, reaching to support himself on the stone behind.

“Upstairs?” asks Harry, between ragged breaths.

Draco nods, but his head tips back under Harry’s touch, and panting, Harry presses down soft kisses, feeling the thready beat under his lips. Warmth and scent are overcoming his caution.

“I’m sorry, about the dance,” he whispers as Draco turns to meet his lips. “I didn’t realise. Hermione had to explain. Why on earth did you think I’d know what it meant?”

“Don’t worry Potter, I’ve learnt my lesson,” says Draco with a little nip to his lower lip. “Never again will I over-estimate your intelligence.” But his tone and the hand softly stroking the base of his spine belie his words, and Harry is starting to be able to read Draco.

After another frantic kiss they sink back breathless against the balustrade. “Have you forgiven me, then?” says Harry.

“Forgiven you?” repeats Draco, blankly.

“For, you know, playing that trick on you.”

But Draco’s shaking his head, “You don’t get it, do you? _I_ can’t believe you forgave me.”

“For what?” He reaches out.

“Everything -”

“Stop it Draco.” He takes him by the jaw and looks into eyes which seem ridiculously young and vulnerable. He has to stop this now, it’s no way to start a - to start this.

“I’ve spoken to Hermione, and Luna, and Audrey and Andromeda and Teddy and even your bloody Crup, and I’ve used my own eyes, at last, and I know, I _know_ that you’ve changed. You paid for what you did, and what you did was under duress and because you were incredibly young and stupid -”

“I couldn’t quite believe it, when you and Weasley, and Hermione, you just -” Draco pulls away, his voice muffled. “You just accepted me, and let me in. I think I probably always wanted your attention, maybe in a strange way, I always wanted you, but I was too young and stupid to know it.”

“You said it this time,” says Harry, touching his arm. He’s rewarded with a wry smile. “You know, I don’t think I realised that you were a real person, with real feelings, when I started this -.

“You know, _I_ always thought you’d be the strong silent type but you don’t stop talking do you." Draco slides down to the stone-flagged terrace and pats the floor beside him. “I’m not sure my legs can hold me up any more.”

“Sorry," says Harry, dropping down beside him and threading their hands together. “It just feels like we’ve got a lot of catching up to do and - Oh, bugger, your dad’s going to kill me, isn’t he?”

“Yup,” says Draco, tipping his head back against the stone doorpost. “But it’ll all be fine, because you’re Harry Potter and you can do anything. So Teddy and the _Prophet_ say, anyway.”

“I thought you didn’t believe all that stuff.”

“I didn’t,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “But you’re doing a good job of convincing me.”

Something loosens in Harry’s belly. He laughs. “Good.”

“Now you oaf, tell me - if you can - how in only two hours you’ve managed to destroy my favourite suit - a suit that it took a Parisian Elf tailor over two _weeks_ to make?"

Desperate times call for desperate measures. “How about I just distract you?"

Draco smirks up at him even as he pulls him into his lap. “It’ll need to be good. We do, after all, have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Oh, it will be,” says Harry with conviction, slipping a hand under a crisp dress shirt and over the soft skin beneath, just as the terrace doors open behind them.

“Spangles, Spangles!”


	27. Chapter 27

Scrambling to their feet, they hurriedly rearrange shirts and trousers into some semblance of respectability but Harry doubts it will fool a mother’s eyes, especially the razor sharp and scarily unblinking eyes of a Narcissa Malfoy.

“Good evening Gentlemen. I hope you are enjoying yourself, Mr Potter.”

Harry nods, says something - he’s not sure what, exactly - and tries to surreptitiously do up the last few buttons on his shirt.

“Still no sign of Spangles, mother?” Draco is, as always, rather more collected as he moves in front of Harry. “Have you tried some of his favourite treats?”

“I’m not an imbecile, Draco.” Narcissa looks closely at them and then sighs. “I’ve tried everything. He must have left the grounds for none of the Elves have managed to find him, and he always comes home for treats at this time of night. I’m becoming a little anxious.”

Harry looks out over the grounds. There’s some sort of Malfoy stand-off going on and he’s not getting involved just in case it’s Legilimency and Narcissa somehow senses the guilt within him.

“Harry and I will look for him tomorrow, won’t -”

There’s a shout and the next thing, Kingsley leaps over the balustrade.

“Thank Merlin, Harry, have you seen -"

Harry jumps, as do Narcissa and Draco. Harry racks his brains for some way to carry this off but Narcissa is already moving forward, a hand outstretched.

“Minister Shacklebolt, this is an unexpected pleasure. We had invited you but we didn’t expect you to-” She pauses, eyes his outfit.

“My apologies, Mrs Malfoy, I was on the way to the Ministry and I needed to see Harry, about a -” his eyes widen, “A- Crup incident, a _serious_ Crup incident.”

“A Crup incident,” repeats Narcissa with scepticism laced through every note. “You were on your way from the South of France to London, _via_ Oban, and you thought you’d just, what, ‘pop in’ here in the hope of finding your Head Auror - the one who’s in Romania - to deal with a ‘serious crup incident’. Did you also happen to fall in a swamp _en route_?” She raises a delicate eyebrow.

“Yes,” says Kingsley with desperate significance. “A _serious_ Crup incident.”

“Ex-Head Auror,” says Ron, as he and Hermione join them on the terrace.

Narcissa doesn’t seem to have noticed, locked as she is in a staring contest with Kingsley.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Draco and Harry turns in time to see a small white ball of energy leap barking onto the balustrade.

“Would that Crup incident, per chance, be the one just there, with the one of my peacocks in his mouth?”

Harry closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again he wishes he hadn’t bothered. Sitting proudly on the balustrade, a crimson spattered white peacock in his mouth, is Spangles. As they watch in electrified silence he jumps down onto the terrace and right into the middle of them, looking between his mistress and his new friends, and evidently wondering to whom he should proffer his gift. The new friend wins, for with a bark he drops the peacock, white, still and to all appearances dead, at the Minister’s feet and looks up, panting, for praise which does not come.

“Judas," whispers Narcissa, bending to examine the lifeless bird.

Draco drops down next to her before Hermione can even move. “Get Luna please, Weasley. She’ll know what to do.” Ron nods shortly and heads back inside.

 

“What’s happened?” Luna is on the terrace quicker than Harry could even have hoped, Wilfred at her side. “Oh the poor creature.”

She kneels on the floor and Draco relinquishes his burden. “I think it’s still alive,” he says.

They wait in anxious silence as Luna and Wilfred work over the Peacock with spells, and ointments summoned from Narcissa’s personal supply, until - at last - Luna wraps the bird in Harry’s jacket and sits back.

“He’ll be alright now, it’s mainly surface wounds and fear. Keep him nice and warm, with you if possible, that will help with the shock.“

“Thank you, my dear,” says Narcissa. She gets up stiffly, scattering the fluttering fairies, and assumes the cloak of haughtiness that Harry remembers from his school days.

“Minister Shacklebolt, I am very far from being a fool. Will you please explain this gross abuse of my hospitality.”

Put like that, Harry thinks, it’s not so funny. He looks to Kingsley before, haltingly and shame-faced, they recount the story of John MacNab, their own malaise, and the cure they were seeking. If only it didn’t sound so ridiculous and childish under the coldly enquiring gaze of their hostess.

“Come, Mr Potter,” says Narcissa at last. “Surely you didn’t believe we’d expose you to those animals? We’ve suffered enough at their hands.”

Harry doesn’t know where to look and Kingsley’s looking at the floor, ashamed.

“We thought we were being very daring, going outside the law, but now I see we’ve all been idiots.”

“Mr Potter, at least, is practically unassailable. Well, -” adds Narcissa, comfortingly, “At least you’ve had the fun of believing you were in real danger. But I hope you have now recovered from this... malady?”

“Well and truly recovered,” says Kingsley. “And very ashamed. My sincere apologies Mrs Malfoy.”

 

Stepping forward, “I have a confession to make,” says Hermione, who has been taking an uncharacteristic back seat. In response to a raised eyebrow she flushes fiercely.

“I’m afraid I stole your Crup Mrs Malfoy.”

“You _stole_ Spangles?” repeats Narcissa, standing back, apparently more shocked by this than anything that went before. “But, -- that is monstrous. You can’t go round kidnapping people’s pets.”

“He was very happy with us,” offers Harry, seeing that Hermione has nothing to say.

“ _I_ wasn’t happy,” says Narcissa. “I’ve been all over the estate looking for him. I’ve looked under every bed, I’ve looked in the peacock coop, I’ve waded through the ha ha. I thought he was dead.”

Luna pulls Wilfred to his feet. “He’ll be all right now though, won’t he Wilfred?” Her hand stays clasped in his, and when she smiles Harry has not seen such a look of happiness on her face for many years.

“Oh,” says Narcissa looking between them. “Oh. Luna, my dear. I see congratulations are in order. Well done Mr Clutterduck." Her face breaks into a smile. “When you marry," she continues ignoring Luna’s protests and blushes, “You must have my sapphire brooch, which came from _my_ mother. I always wanted a daughter to pass it on to, but -” She pauses. “I don’t think that’s going to happen now."

“We truly are sorry, Mrs Malfoy. But there’s no harm done, is there, really?”

Narcissa softens visibly. “I suppose not, but really, it wasn’t a fair game. You must have known that Augusta Longbottom and the Weasleys would never have exposed you, and surely we were the safest house of all. We are all grateful to you for your testimony at our trials. We owe our freedom and reputation to you all, especially Harry and Kingsley. You were entirely safe with us, even my husband, and you should have known it.”

“It was a gross error of judgement,” says Kingsley. “I can only plead some sort of temporary insanity.”

“A hazard of your position, Minister,” she returns before looking round the group. “But what I don’t understand, however, is - how did Spangles get here if you left him locked up at home?”

“Oh god, it’s completely my fault,” says Hermione, clapping her hand across her mouth. “When the Elves let him out he must have followed Kingsley. That poor bird. You’d have thought I’d have learnt after Sirius -” her voice trails away.

A cool hand recalls him to the present and Harry flashes a grateful smile at Draco before he meets repentant brown eyes.

“It’s my fault as well ‘Mione - I noticed something was off earlier, but I got distracted.”

“You’ve been very distracted lately,” says Luna, cleaning off her hands.

“I don’t understand,” says Wilfred stroking the peacock. “Pure breed Crups don’t hunt.”

“If Spangles is a Pure breed Crup I’m Engelbert Humpledick,” whispers Draco, making Harry choke. “ _That’s_ the result of a liaison between my childhood Crup and the gamekeeper’s Muggle mongrel. But don’t tell my mother I said that.”

“I knew nothing about him until Roddy crossed the boundary with the cart,” Kingsley is saying. “He was waiting - must have followed the smell of fish - and he just jumped up and grabbed the bird and ran off. I chased him, and I suppose the wards recognised me as a guest - I never did get round to responding. And then I saw Harry and stumbled in amongst you all. I was frantic by that point, and not really thinking straight.”

“Nose of a collie, instinct of a homing pigeon,” whispers Draco, folding his arms.

”You don’t say,” responds Harry, faintly.

He turns to Hermione, “How much of all this have you actually planned and directed?"

She shrugs. “A little. Some of it was just serendipitous, but I had my hopes."

“You call _this_ serendipitous?" asks Kingsley.

Hermione just smiles. Harry gives her a look, but she’s always been adept at avoiding them, and if Hermione likes playing God - well, there are worse people to be doing it.

 

“Where is my Crup, anyway?” asks Narcissa, still cradling the unlucky peacock.

They all look around. In the drama of an admittedly dramatic-looking blood streaked albino peacock, the cause of all the devastation has retreated unnoticed into the estate.

A shriek cuts through the quiet.

“Great Merlin, what now?” says Narcissa whilst Harry and Kingsley exchange anxious looks.

“Hadn’t we better?” asks Hermione, gesturing in the direction of the noise. There’s a surge as they all hurry, and then, as the yells rise in volume, race towards the loch.  
As they come over the rise, Harry in the lead, he skids to a halt.

“Harry, for Merlin’s sake, help me!” comes a shout from Venus rising, floodlit, out of the water.

“Percy?” calls Kingsley. “Is that you?”

“Minister Shacklebolt? What are you doing here?”

Harry takes in the scene with quick eyes. Percy, drenched and trousers around his ankles, appears to be passionately embracing the naked Venus whilst he and his trousers fight a losing battle against an enraged Crup.

There’s a snap and a flash from his left and Harry realises with irritation that Dennis has followed them down.

“Get that bloody dog away,” says Percy, still clinging to the statue.

“That, Mr Under Secretary, is a Pure breed Crup,” retorts Narcissa, the peacock still in her arms.

“I don’t care,” shouts Percy. “It looks like the Hound of the bloody Baskervilles to me.”

Hermione splutters.

“Come on Spangles,” calls Draco, and then when the little Crup continues to jump and yap at Percy’s trouser legs, he sighs, takes off his jacket, hangs it over Harry’s arm and wades into the loch.

“Better get that peacock indoors,” says Hermione, who has found herself with an armful of shoes and socks. “Looks like Spangles has reverted to type.”

“He’s never been able to resist a chase,” says Narcissa as she hands the bird to Luna.

“I thought Crups weren’t supposed to like water,” says Percy, as Harry hauls him up the bank.

“How did you end up in the loch?” asks Harry with interest as Hermione dries him off.

Percy flushes. “I arranged to meet Audrey out here for a little picnic, I thought it looked romantic.” He waves at the picnic rug. “I transfigured the rug, brought some champagne and some salmon, and I was waiting when -- that, that, thing - just hurtled across the lawn towards me. I jumped in the lake but he followed me.”

“He’s never been able to resist salmon,” gasps Draco, emerging deliciously damp and rumpled looking with a struggling Spangles in his arms. Despite his condition the grey eyes are observing the scene with barely disguised glee.

“Mr Darcy!" exclaims Hermione, before slapping a hand over her mouth.

Draco winks at her before turning to Percy. “Mr Under Secretary. For Merlin’s sake put that fish down or I won’t be answerable for the consequences."

Percy looks from his hand to the panting Crup, “Oh!” After a moment he smiles and drops the salmon on the grass. “Come along then, you might as well have it.” He steps back.

“I’d forgotten about Percy and dogs,” says Ron as Spangles gulps down the fish. “Fred and George - joke that went wrong. I actually felt -”

“Clothes please,” says Draco, hand outstretched. “The ladies are getting over excited.”

“What on _earth_ has happened now?” comes a voice at the hedge.

Harry turns as Audrey hurries towards them, her cool dignity shattering as she observes her husband, covered in pond weed and a little ragged about the legs.

“I’m sorry Percy, I got waylaid by Insulsus Fawley.” She takes out her wand and mutters a neat and efficient _Reparo_. “It’s not perfect but it will have to do. What in Merlin’s name were you doing in the loch?”

“Thank you,” says Percy. “What _I_ want to know, however, is what Minister Shacklebolt is doing here, _not_ in France might I add, and dressed as a tramp.” He looks expectantly at Kingsley.

“I think we owe you an apology,” says Harry, with a glance encompassing the rest of John MacNab when the silence grows overlong. “Our visit to you the other day was under false pretences. We -” he points at the composite members of the poacher - “Are John MacNab.”

“You - all of you - are John MacNab,” repeats Percy.

“Just me, Ron and Kingsley.”

“I was directing operations,” adds Hermione in a small voice.

He digests this in silence. “But, but - why?”

“We were bored,” says Ron.

“For fun,” says Kingsley. “I know it sounds mad -”

“ _Fun?_ ” says Percy. “You’d risk your positions and break Merlin knows how many laws, just for a bit of fun? Why didn’t you go dragon taming in Romania or, I don’t know, negotiate with the Giants, hunt Werewolves?”

“Too much snot,” mutters Harry, before Draco nudges him in the side.

Kingsley shrugs. “We needed real risk, reputational risk, to find some interest in our lives.”

“But, you could have brought down Wizarding Parliament with the scandal - didn’t you think about the effect that could have on the Magical community? You could have plunged us into civil war, or given the Pure Blood extremists the opportunity they’ve been waiting for if the new Head Auror, the Minister of Magic, the Solicitor General, and the, the - symbol of right and cooperation - had all been exposed.”

“I think,” says Kingsley, “That we have been a little silly.”

“You’re right,” says Hermione. “It was my idea, from a Muggle book, but I shouldn’t have assumed we could do any better than they did. I’ve been as caught up in this as the others. It started as a little bit of fun and it all got out of hand very quickly.”

“So how did you get - ah. You knew?” says Percy, looking at his wife.

Her mouth twists, “Sorry Percy, I didn’t know what you would do. I think I know better now though.”

He looks around at them, hurt shadowing his face. “I realise I haven’t been the best brother, but I can’t believe you honestly thought I’d hand you over to the press?”

“Speaking of the press,” says Harry. “Give me that camera please, Dennis."

Dennis desists, “You could use it to make sure he doesn’t -” At Harry’s look he stops and hands over the camera.

“I wouldn’t. Honestly, I wouldn’t.”

Ron looks at his brother “Yes,” he says, “I know.” He takes the camera and vanishes the photograph, to Dennis’ obvious disappointment.

Harry’s attention is drawn by a muttered disagreement as Audrey fusses over her husband’s clothes.

“No, Percy. If you don’t tell them, I will. It’s time we cleared the air for once and for all.”

Percy looks at her mutely, then nods.

“What’s going on?” asks Ron, looking between them.

“You lost the wrong brother,” says Percy apropos of nothing.

Audrey sighs into the bemused silence. “Your brother has apparently spent the last decade thinking that when your family lost Fred, but got him - Percy - back, they wished it was the other way round."

“But, that’s ridiculous," says Ron, shrugging off Hermione’s warning hand.

“Yes, it is," agrees Audrey. “And I’ve been trying to tell him that for the last two days. If I’d only known before a lot of this could have been -"

“You bloody idiot, Perce. Didn’t you think it was worse for Mum to lose _two_ sons, especially when one of them chose to turn his back on the family," snaps Ron.

“I’m not like the rest of you," says Percy a little desperately. “You know I’m not. Everyone says it. But Fred was - he was a proper Weasley. It was entirely logical that you’d -"

“Love isn’t logical," shouts Ron at a volume which has Hermione casting a quick _Quietus_. “It just - is."

“And when he finally made some overtures to you, it sounds like you assumed it was a political move,” continues Audrey.

Ron stares at her for a moment, breathing quickly, before his shoulders drop. “You’re right,” he says. “We did.”

“It wasn’t,” says Percy. “I swear to you -” he looks miserable and beaten.

“You’re an idiot,” says Ron, closing in on his brother with a bear hug that terrifies Percy. “But you’re our idiot. So don’t ever fucking do that again.”

For once Hermione forbears to say anything.

 

“I think it would be wise to return to the house before we are all missed, although perhaps without you Minister Shacklebolt, you are hardly dressed for the occasion,” says Narcissa, who has been watching in fascinated silence.

“What are you going to tell them?” asks Kingsley. “They’re all waiting for news of John MacNab.”

“It is always best to give people what they expect to hear,” says Narcissa. “But what about our esteemed friend from the press?”

“It’s the story of a lifetime,” says Dennis, kicking at the gravel. “But I gave Harry my word.”

“You are lucky to always inspire such loyalty Mr Potter,” says Narcissa. “Although it only goes to underline how little you were risking, when you even have the press in your pocket.”

“Only Dennis,” says Harry with a grateful smile at the muzzled reporter. “Skeeter is still out there so we’d better be careful.”

“Would you run an exclusive, Mr Creevey?” asks Narcissa. “Referring perhaps to an old Wizarding recluse turned mad by the war who is now being dealt with by a medical expert from St Mungo’s? And for Salazar’s sake will somebody please clean up my Crup, he looks like something from a horror story.”

With blood spattered over white fur and eyes crazed in the red light of the fountain, Spangles does indeed have a Hound of the Baskervilles air to him, if rather smaller and fluffier.

 

Harry takes Draco’s hand as they walk towards the terrace.

“It’s nearly the end, anyway," says Hermione, sounding a little disappointed.

“There’s still time for Draco’s speech, isn’t there darling?”

Draco raises an eyebrow at his mother.

“Announcing that in the circumstances we will be donating the John MacNab prize money to Mr Potter’s new Squib Retreat.”

“Ah yes, I had almost forgotten.”

“Thank you,” says Harry, realising that it is his place to say something, “That is more than generous.”

“We would like to join you, if you will allow us,” says Percy with a smile at his wife.

“I’ll be sure to add that to my report,” says Dennis, pulling out his camera again. “Could you all stand together for a photograph, with the house behind you -- lovely.”

The moment is frozen in time as they all, Kingsley excepted, pose in the fluttering light of two hundred fairies.”

“And after that, time for just one more dance," says Narcissa. “I think we’ll have Rozsa again."


	28. Epilogue

 

Harry’s waiting on the sofa after a long but ultimately satisfying day at the Squib’s Retreat. Draco should be back soon, and after the day he’s had he is hoping that they’ll continue their nightly reading of Muggle and Wizarding children’s books - and occasional Martin Miggs comics. Preferably in bed.

“Sorry I’m late,” says Draco, stepping through the fireplace in a haze of dust and the scent that is now irrevocably his. “You need to clean your Floo, Potter. This is cashmere, not one of your plebeian hoodies. Talking of which, is there any particular reason you’re half naked?”

Harry smiles up at him, “Not going to rise. Moussaka’s only just gone in and tea’s in the pot. Did you remember to get the Quaich for Luna and Wilfred?"

“In my bag.” He drops it on the sofa. “Will you have time to help Roddy inscribe it tomorrow? I couldn’t get over today - my bloody father dropped by the Ministry again.”

“Any progress?”

“He still thinks it’s all part of a cunning plan to restore the Malfoy name,” Draco admits, folding his cloak carefully. “Sometimes I wonder if we should just humour him. Today he actually told me I was ‘over-playing’ it and had I ever considered I was ‘taking it a bit too far’.”

“You know it doesn’t bother me.” Harry shrugs. “I’ll take the cup over in the morning and the rest of John MacNab can sign it after the rehearsal. Has Wilfred told you where the honeymoon’s to be?”

Draco snorts. “Fwooper breeding in Madagascar you mean? Your friends are officially insane, you do know that, don’t you?”

“Your friends too, don’t try to deny it,” says Harry, pouring another cup of hot smoky tea, and, as always now, stopping to take a sniff.

Draco humphs and pulls off his jumper. “Perhaps.”

“I hope they’ve got somewhere to hide it.”

“Trust me, there are plenty of things at a Wizarding wedding that need to be hidden - you can only imagine the horrors my parents received.

“I think I’ve seen some of them,” says Harry, moving over.

Draco drops down next to him. “I’ve had a hard day. Is there room on the sofa for a man like me?”

“Sofa or broom?” asks Harry leaning back against him with a grin.

“Hmmm. Now you’re asking.” He slides a warm hand down Harry’s side.

“Got enough energy to read?” Harry asks hopefully. “It’s a Wizarding book next, isn’t it?”

“No,” says Draco, looking away and rooting in the satchel he takes to work, even though Harry laughs at him and tells him he looks like he’s back in Hogwarts. “I thought, perhaps we could start - this-”

Harry looks at the book; looks at Draco, who is busying himself in his bag.

“Yes,” he says. “Definitely.”

There’s a pause and Draco emerges, “Alright then, if you insist.”

Harry closes his eyes as telling fingers thread through his hair.

“Little Nutbrown Hare, who was going to bed...”


End file.
